Perfect Disease
by tsukiyo-rin
Summary: I thought myself immune to his wiles. It was stupid of me really. Just because I saw the trap, acknowledged the danger, watched others fall prey to it, learned its trick, didn't mean I wouldn't eventually fall prey to it in the single second I let my guard down. Now it's all mangled. Completely unsalvageable. Why? Because you can't fix what wasn't there to begin with. Shizaya AU
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own or claim ownership of the characters depicted within. Nor do I own or claim right to the lyrics of The Wombats utilized within.

Chapter Warnings: Some Language.

* * *

Six months isn't that long in the grand scheme of things. Not really. On the other hand, when every day, hour, minute and second, waking or not, of those same six months is spent reliving the previous year and a bit... when the emotions of the final three and a half minutes burn and tear and cut and rend and HURT with the same intensity of their first occurrence... six months is suddenly an eternity you think you will never be able to escape. That's where I am right now.

Sitting on my old, battered couch, half submerged in the cocoon of cushions and blankets I've built for myself, I survey the veritable war zone that has taken the place of my once comfortable and comforting living room. Well, not really. I'm not seeing the devastation I've wrought with my own two hands. My gaze doesn't take in the mountains of dirty dishes, take out containers, bottles and cigarette butts that have long since overrun the confines of the coffee table, spilling over onto the floor and has grown until you would never begin to suspect that a table lay beneath the refuse. My eyes don't register that flickering television with its bright images strained, discolored and distorted across the surface now marred by dark spidering lines originating from the corner where the device now rests against the floor on its side. I've long past been aware of the chunks of plaster and drywall hanging from the walls by wallpaper nooses and littering the carpet. Nor the fine layer of gypsum and dust that has settled over the few pieces of now mangled furniture I once owned like the first dusting of winters snow.

Mangled. That's a good word. It describes everything about the present.

My home? The living room isn't the only place here to feel my bouts of rage.

My relationships? My friends stopped trying to stop by and talk some sense into me two months ago. The last time my phone rang was weeks. I haven't looked at it to see who tried.

My life? I haven't left my flat since that day. Not for work. Not for friends. Not for food. Not even my brother. Part of me, a very small and quiet part, is surprised the lights are still on, I manage to always have something eat and I haven't been evicted yet. Though, I don't have the energy to ponder the why's of this particular non-development.

My heart? I don't even know where to begin, yet the useless organ is at the root of everything.

Everything. It's all mangled. Broken. Completely unsalvageable. Why, you ask? Because you can never fix what wasn't there to begin with.

And that eternity of... nothing... that holds nothing but an ache so deep that I'm not sure I even want to escape its pull.

* * *

**We don't admit it but we've never seen eye to eye**

**My hobby's moaning and yours is making money**

The second I laid eyes on him, something coiled deep in my gut. A foreign, unsettling sensation bubbled and raced through my veins as the chaotic noise dimmed and friendly faces dulled, leaving his form and lilting voice the only thing in perfect clarity left in the room. I couldn't say exactly what about him drew my attention so immediately and so fully. His figure was unassuming; thin, almost painfully so really, but his weight settled in graceful lines along his slight 5'9" frame. Long limbs clad in a smart, well tailored black suit, leaving a sliver of his wrists exposed under the cuff as he tucked his hands carelessly into his trouser pockets, looking ever the epitome of nonchalant confidence. Under his blazer, a charcoal shirt wrapped his lean torso, the top two buttons popped open to reveal the barest glimpse of his collar bones as they swept elegantly away from the hollow of his throat under creamy white skin. My eyes traveled upwards, following the sleek lines of his long neck, over the tousled but well kempt locks of his glossy black hair as they kissed soaring cheek bones and splayed across his forehead, then down the planes of his face to take in the straight nose that lead down to a set of full, rosy lips that quirked up at the corner in a playful half smile that spoke of not so secret amusement.

I stood entranced as seconds ticked by with all the alacrity of cold molasses, drinking in the sight of him. That is until he turned his gaze to me and time stopped all together for a few short moments. The depth of his eyes, so warm they appeared nearly red even in the dim bar lighting, locked with mine and held me pinned to the spot. My heart beat erratically pounded in my ears, heat crept up my spine from the effort the organ exerted against my ribs, and my chest ached for the breath I'd forgotten to take. I had never met him, let alone seen him before this moment, yet, he already commanded my full attention.

The corners of of his perfectly almond shaped eyes lifted in amusement, and maybe something more, something unreadable for the distance between us, before his gaze flitted away from mine, effectively ending the moment. Time came crashing back around me accompanied by the sound of shattering glass.

"Fuck!" My eyes dropped down the the spot where the cocktail I had been about to serve to one of the patrons had met its untimely demise on the floor at my feet. Growling under my breath, I offered a half-hearted apology to the waiting woman as I grabbed a bar towel to toss over the mire of sticky amber liquid and splintered glass to keep the mess contained while I remade the order. I refused to let my eyes wander from the task at hand even as a light, musical chuckle reached my ears from the other end of the bar. The sound was at my expense, I just knew it, and I would be damned if I let the one who had produced the noise know I had taken notice of him again.

Just what the fuck was that anyway? I've never had such a... visceral reaction to anyone in all of my 25 years. There was no way that I had just stood there gawking like some love struck fool in a scene straight from a shoujo manga. I don't do love, infatuation or even attraction. Well, maybe attraction, and only ever fleetingly, but definitely not the other two. Never had, so there was no way I was starting now. Not that I hadn't tried in the past. Emphasis on tried. I've never lacked for attention, male or female. I just never could find it in myself to care much for anyone in that manner, mostly because after talking who ever had approached me for more than five minutes, they'd have said or done something to piss me off,at which point all I could think about was finding the quickest way to shut them up and get them to leave. More often than not, my initial plan, response, instinct was to fall back on my fists, regardless of gender. Luckily, I can count the number of times such events had actually occurred in the last 5 years on one hand. Needless to say, I think it's needless at least, the few times I was able to tolerate someone long enough to fuck, because lets face it, that's ultimately all they were really interested in, my connection with those people ended quickly and poorly after the deed was done.

Sighing to myself, I placed the cocktail on the counter in front of the woman. "1000 yen," I muttered just loudly enough to be heard even as I turned away in search of the small broom and dustpan I knew should be situated somewhere to my left along bar area near the sink. Thankfully, away from from the spot on the bar the disastrously captivating man and his companion had situated themselves. I needed a moment, or three, who was I kidding, to compose myself before I tended to the duo, or the interaction might just result in more destroyed glassware... or worse.

"Hmmm... the drinks here may be excellent, but the service definitely is lacking, ne, Shiki-san?" The lilting voice from the far end of the bar reached my ears again.

I rolled my eyes as I stooped to gather up as much of the mess as I can manage in the towel before chucking it in the bin by the well.

Welp! There went any misguided interest I might have held for the man with entrancing eyes. Of course he was just like everyone else I had ever encountered, pissing me off in mere minutes. You'd think by now I'd just be content in my solitude. Apparently, I haven't learned my lesson well enough just yet. And, apparently, hope is a persistent bitch.

I sighed lowly as I swept up the remaining glass before running a damp towel across the floor to remove any residual stickiness from the spilled drink, and tossed that towel in the bin as well on the off chance there were any slivers of glass that had collected in its fibers. It would be just my luck to grab it later in the evening and cut my hands to hell in my carelessness. Shaking my head to clear myself of useless thoughts, I straightened myself up, quickly washed my hands and took one deep, calming breath before heading down the bar to tend to my newest patrons, scrubbing my hands dry on a clean towel a little more harshly than strictly necessary.

"I apologize for the wait," I said as I drew near enough to catch snippets of their subdued conversation. "What may I get for you gentlemen?"

"Ara! It has manners after all!" Though I kept my eyes on the older of the pair, Shiki-san apparently, a man in his late 30's, I guessed, with short cropped black hair, piercing black eyes, and a few scars mixed amongst the deep creases around his eyes and brow that gave him a slightly dangerous and calculating aura despite his impeccable and expensive suit, I couldn't help but notice the one who had spoken out of my peripheral vision. He leaned against the bar, his cheek cupped in his palm as he tipped his head to send me a long appraising look, his amusement clearly evident in the way he held himself and the slight hitch of his shoulders, like he was chuckling quietly to himself. I bit back the growl that began to form deep in my chest and turned my attention away from temptation just in time to catch the older man's order.

"I'll have a double Yoichi 15 year old. Neat. For you, Orihara-san?" Shiki-san said and turned his eyes towards his companion. I fixed my eyes on the dark grained bar top to avoid following his eyes to the other man.

"Hmmm..."Orihara-san drawled as he pretended to ponder his options and I just barely caught myself before my eyes landed on his face again, instead settling on the exposed hollow of his throat, which, as it happens, was the wrong place to stop. He had his head tipped back so he could 'consult with the ceiling.' The posture exposed the long lines of his neck to the dim lighting making the skin there gleam like backlit alabaster, and I found myself wanting to run my fingers over it to see if it really is as flawlessly smooth as it looks. "Surprise me," he said bringing me out of my revery and back into professional mode.

"If I could inquire," I began, fighting the overwhelming urge to sigh and stalk away like I very much would like to, "what is it you usually enjoy, sir? Gin, Whiskey, Vodka? Something tart, sweet, bitter, light?" I asked politely, still not meeting his eyes. This part of the interaction is rehearsed to perfection. This particular thing has been requested of me more times than I really wish to recall; a tried, tired, and cliched advance as it is, I learned rather quickly when I started here not to actually surprise the patrons too much. Especially if I wasn't going to respond to their advances the way they wished.

"Make me something you believe would suit me, Bartender-san," he said in a tone I can call nothing but sultry. Neither his words, nor his tone were new or unexpected to me. However, there was something in the new register, how it contrasted with the light, musical and nearly child-like voice I had heard from him thus far, that lingered in the air between us like a tangible thing; softer, warmer, deeper and too intimate as the vibrations curled against my skin and left a heat in its wake that had my eyes drawing up to meet his.

This is my chance, an open invitation with perfectly permissible pretext to take a closer look at him, let my eyes linger as they take in his features, to scrutinize him in detail. All in the name of deciding on which cocktail 'I believed would suit him.' I may want nothing to do with him beyond bartender-patron relations, if I even want that, but maybe I can figure out what about him caused such a reaction in me when he first entered the establishment. Or at least that was my reasoning for my actions. I didn't dwell on it any further.

It was ultimately his eyes that make up my mind for me, as far as which drink I wanted to serve him. It wasn't a trick of the light earlier. There really were flecks of red, honest and true crimson red, mixed in with the darkened amber and melted chocolate mosaic that made up his irises. Then there was the feelings the dwelled in their depths. Mischief. Deviousness. Guile. Trouble. That sealed it. I wasn't sure if he would enjoy the drink, but I honestly didn't care. It really was too perfect and I knew on some level that he would appreciate the not so subtle jab my appraisal would deliver when I placed the drink before him. I allowed a smirk to take over my face, gave him one last once over before nodding slightly and making my way back down the bar to gather the required ingredients, utensils and glassware for the orders. As I set to work, I began to hope my judgement of Orihara-san's humor would hold true, otherwise I might find myself having yet another conversation with my boss about appropriate conduct while on the clock. Shrugging the thought off, I poured the Yoichi into a tumbler and set it aside to let it breathe while I prepared my liquid barb. It was too late now. My mind would not entertain the thought of another drink for the infuriatingly gorgeous man and, when it really came down to it, I was very rarely wrong in my measure of people. Calvados, Benedictine, and Yellow Chartreuse were measure in respective proportions, 2:1:1, went in to a cheater tin with five cubes of ice and the tin was capped. 20 seconds of vigorous shaking later, the contents of the tin were stained into a chilled coupe glass, topped with two dashes of Angostura bitters and garnished with half a fresh strawberry. Perfection.

I allowed myself to feel pleased as I carried the two glasses back to the men at the end of the bar, but carefully kept my eyes on the older gentleman in hopes to keep the fluttery self satisfied glee contained just long enough to deliver my masterpiece of the evening to the younger. "Your Yoichi neat," I said placing the tumbler on a small red square napkin in front of its recipient with a small bow before turning on Orihara-san. "And, for you, sir," I let the feeling roiling in my chest to bubble over a small amount as I placed the glass on a napkin before him and met his gaze, "a Widow's Kiss." His eyes widened minutely for a brief moment before crinkling at the corners as he let loose a peal of mirthful laughter. "Please, enjoy," I said with a small bow to hide the small smile that had come to my lips at the sound.

A deep, rolling chuckle joined with Orihara-san's bell like laugh as I turned to make my retreat. "He got you pegged, Orihara-san."

"Indeed." What I had missed was the insidious gleam in his eye when he said this.

After that evening, I began to see quite a bit of Orihara-san at the bar. At first he came in with various acquaintances, some repeat visitors, others I never saw again, but none seemed particularly close with him. I didn't want to admit to myself that I had noticed this particular caveat with no small amount of satisfaction but, I had. I simply chose to not give reason to why I had noticed.

Through catching snippets and some not so subtle eavesdropping of his conversation with others, I learned a few things about Orihara-san.

One, he was a high profile criminal defense lawyer who made no secret of taking on the cases against various ranking yakuza members or obviously corrupt government officials. Another thing about his career choices, he had a flawless track record. He had never lost a case that went to trial, but more notably, had managed to keep nearly 90% of his cases from ever appearing before a judge and had never entered a plea bargain. He would do absolutely anything to keep his clients from seeing jail time, being publicly reprimanded, or garnering any sort of mark on their records, but always for a price, and his rates were not cheap.

Two, in any situation, he was always on watch for how to turn it to his benefit, most frequently, his monetary benefit. Money was King in his eyes apparently. Though, personal favors seemed to come in at a close second.

Three, he had an unhealthy obsession with knives, though I wouldn't witness this first hand for a while to come.

Four, there was absolutely nothing the man couldn't accomplish with a just cell phone and ten minutes time. I was convinced he had the entire city, if not the country, on speed dial. I know it is a stretch. I had gone to high school, done well enough I like to think, and knew both what hyperbole was, and how to employ it.

Five, he spoke at least three languages fluently, as far as I could tell. Japanese, Russian, and English. In learning this little tid-bit about him, I learned new something about myself: English accents get me harder than a steel girder in under a minute. No joke. One night he took a call at the bar while his company for the night had excused himself to the restroom, and had I not been glaring at the clock at that moment waiting for my shift to be over, I would not have known it took exactly 38 seconds from the time he made the language change till I had gone rushing awkwardly to the backroom like the devil himself had lit a fire under my heels to shamefully relieve myself of the unexpected, and highly potent, arousal his voice had wrought on me. I couldn't look my co-workers in the eye for the remainder of the week.

Six, he was well liked, or at the very least tolerated, despite the fact that he teased absolutely everyone mercilessly, lorded his intelligence over others and often made, sometimes not-so-veiled, slights his companions 'weaknesses.' Charisma was one word for it. Charm was another. Glamour was what it really was; the quality of fascinating, alluring, or attracting. Magic. Enchantment. Witchery. He put people under a spell, drew them to him, and held them close while he slowly broke them apart without their knowing. Hell, they might as well have invited him to do it. I thought myself immune to his wiles. It was stupid of me really. Just because you saw the trap, acknowledged the danger, watched others fall prey to it, learned its trick, didn't mean you wouldn't eventually stumble into it as well in the single second you let your guard down. But I hadn't wanted to think on it at the time.

Lastly, and most importantly in my mind, I learned his given name. Izaya.

And, apparently, I had earned myself a nickname. One that, the first time he uttered it, had earned him a half full bottle of Belvedere hurtling towards his head from across the bar. Lucky bastard ducked at the last moment and the bottle nearly punched a hole in the wall behind his head when it impacted. I had gotten chewed out by my boss right then and there, in front of any and everyone who cared to divert their attention to the scene behind the bar, while Izaya-san had sat laughing maniacally, head down on the counter, buried in his arms as he rocked unsteadily in his seat.

After what seemed like an eternity of standing mutely, taking the verbal abuse while quelling the ever rising desire to send a fist clean through the skulls of both my boss and the hyena in the corner just to be done with the whole situation, my boss told me the bottle would be coming out of my paycheck, full price despite its half empty state at the time I chose to use it as a projectile, and demanded I apologize "sincerely" to Orihara-san for my "atrocious behavior." The jackal righted himself at this and waved the apology away as he wiped at the tears that had gathered in the corner of his eyes. He insisted that there was nothing to forgive as "the look on [his] Shizu-chan's face was literally priceless." When he departed that evening, with promises of seeing me again the next, he left two 10,000 yen notes under his empty glass.

"For the bottle " was penned neatly along the upper edge of the top bill.

* * *

AN: I make no promises as to the when to expect the next chapter. Though I have more than half of the story written, and the entirely of the plot outlined in detail, updates will depend on both my OCD and how well the Shizuo and Izaya in my head decide to cooperate with my plans for them. Thank you for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I lay claim to nothing besides the specific combination of words contained within. Not the characters or the lyrics, the rights of which belong to their respective creators: Ryohgo Narita and The Wombats.

Warnings: Some Language and Brief Mention of Adult Situations

* * *

**I didn't say it but you never were the honest type**

**You tried to fabricate a bedtime story**

Weekday evenings after 9 or 10 o'clock were generally quiet in the bar. The short lived, after work crowd had usually dispersed by then, leaving to prepare themselves for another unfulfilling and menial day in their personal purgatories of their own design from lack of concrete ambition. Rinse. Repeat. Ad infinitum. Or, at least, until they reached pensioning age, or, if they were lucky, Fate dealt them some upheaval and an opportunity to escape the daunting cycle of the mundane was afforded them. Not that many who came in and spilled their woes over strong spirits ever recognized such things for the blessings they could have been. No. Instead they entrenched themselves deeper and eventually welcomed the same palette-swapped living tomb they had almost clawed their way from. I digress.

Late weekday evenings. I had loved those nights as they allowed me the opportunity to lose myself in my thoughts for longer periods of time without being interrupted, something I relished. It's not like I spent my time ruminating on the complexities of life and the universe, just simply let go of every and any thing, all my reservations and hesitancies, and allowed my thoughts to wander, twist, circle and ebb as they pleased. I had spent the better part of a quarter century learning to tame and quell the devastating rage of my youth with varying degrees of success depending on the day and the asshole inciting my anger. Those quiet moments of limitless unrestrained reflection were all the peace I had been able to find with any regularity, so I clung to them with a single minded determination. They were the only times I really felt utterly calm in the tumultuous tempest that seemed to comprise the predominant part of memorable, monumental moments in my life to date.

I say had loved those weekday nights because they were suddenly, and irrevocably taken from me. Idling my time away within the labyrinth of my mind had been replaced by something, well, someone else who forcibly wrested the idle from me, and engaged my thoughts with purposeful determination. To what end, I couldn't be sure. The only thing I would commit to with certainty was that quiet solitude was gone. Erected in its absence was the chatter filled company of one. Orihara Izaya.

The first week after his sudden appearance in my life was filled with his near nightly presence, along with a chosen companion for the evening; always at the far end of the bar as if he were attempting to lay claim to the small section of hardwood countertop and two richly cushioned square stools that were tucked under it in his absence. No one had ever sat there before, not even on the nights the bar was particularly busy, so his territory went uncontested. The sad thing is that I had begun to associate that particular space with him, and in some weird sort of way, granted him ownership. At least the knowledge of where he would be situated in the bar on any given night made it easy to keep tabs on the man. Not that I was watching him. Of course not. Watching implied I had taken an interest in his habits, personality, personage, and I don't do interest. No. I was merely taking notice of someone who happened to occupy the same space as I. Any 'interest' was limited to occupational professionalism.

For instance, Izaya would shift the glass around on the countertop absentmindedly with his right hand between sips when he found the flavor of whatever I had served him less than agreeable. When he enjoyed the beverage, he would pull the glass closer to the centerline of his body and lazily trace the rim with the ring finger of his left hand. If he found something amusing, whether is be the name of the drink, its contents, or the perceived reason behind my choice, he draped his left hand over the top of the glass and tap the ring that adorned his index finger against the side. Making note of your customers tastes and preferences, and tailoring your mixing of drinks to suit, is what set apart an excellent bartender from one who was only technically well versed in the craft. It is what turned passing patrons into regular clientele. Not that I used the fruits of my observations for that end alone with Izaya.

"Surprise me," was ever Izaya's preferred request of me, one I continued to indulge him in. I always spent an extra moment or two scrutinizing him each evening, analyzing the differing moods reflected in his eyes, posture, presentation, and how I felt about what I saw in him before I would retreat to prepare whatever cocktail I felt would either compliment my findings or potentially antagonize him depending on my tolerance for him that evening. We didn't speak much that at first, but the routine dance of request, read, cocktail, and reaction held a wealth of interaction if one was inclined to examine the subtext. Eulogies, Poet's Dreams, Stingers, London Mules, Rusty Nails, and Vespers comprised conversations that made use of spirits, herbal notes, delicate harmonies and discordant biting flavors to inflict jabs, soothe stresses, mark distaste, extend acceptance, provide joy, and incite challenge in the place of words. It was a private language in a public sphere. One we both understood without agreeing upon it. Each glass I presented him was accompanied with a not wholly mocking question: 'I see you. Do you?'

The following week his routine began to shift. Oh, he was still there every night, unerringly, but the company that usually kept the majority of his attention during his nightly sojourn in to my modest workplace was absent on as many occasions as it was there during the course of that week. That is to say, he was alone half the times he came in, and those particular nights were more strained and nerve wracking for me than usual, as I became his primary source of entertainment. Meaning, I was forced to do more than notice him and participate in our ritual nonverbal banter before retreating. I found myself being drawn into conversation with him for ever extending periods of time. Ones that required more of me than the odd grunt, or hum, or chuckle, or impersonal professional rhetoric to keep the conversation moving. Talking with him crossed the boundaries of the normally one sided pity parties unconvincingly dressed up as interaction that I usually dealt with from patrons. He engaged me actively. Sought my opinion. Challenged me. Incited in me honest thought and reflection on the given topic. And he actually listened. Not just heard what I had said; listened, processed and provided his insight in response accordingly.

The nights he came in alone were also filled with a marked increase in petty destruction of bar property (glassware, bottles of liquor, bartending paraphernalia, one unfortunate barstool) when he would either catch me off guard with a flippant comment, a not-so-casual touch or a lingering look. Other incidents were the result of him purposely pissing me the fuck off to see which buttons he could push to get me seeing red the fastest simply because he could. It amused him. A little too much if you asked me. And I, in my infinite wisdom and foresight, inadvertently turned it into a game for him when I began to outwardly ignore the incessant needling. Apparently, ignoring the problem doesn't make it go away, despite what I had heard to the contrary numerous times before. Instead of knocking it the fuck off and behaving like a decent human being like I had wanted him to, he began to push harder, dig deeper and picked at increasingly personal things in his quest to... I don't know what he aimed to accomplish. The only positive thing about the whole situation was he always slipped me a few bills surreptitiously at the end of the evening to cover the damages I had caused in response to him, the amount of which would invariably come out of my proper paycheck. It was almost decent of him. Almost.

By the end of the third week of his newest pastime, Izaya no longer brought anyone else with him to the bar, claiming my company was more stimulating than the lot of others combined. Don't think I believed him for a second, as much as part of me may have wanted to reciprocate the sentiment. At this point we had fallen into some semblance of a comfortable routine, comfortable being a very relative term. Izaya would waltz through the door between 8 and 11pm every night, excepting Sunday's when the bar was closed, and I would begin observing him before the door had even come to rest against the jam once again. Most days I would have already reached a decision about which cocktail to serve him before he had finished crossing the 25 feet of space that separated the door from his usual post. We had done away with the pretense of me asking what he would like sometime in the second week of our relations as his answer was always the same. The drink I sat before him to open our dialogue for the evening reflected my mood as much as it did his. The days he came in worn and pensive and I actually gave a shit, I made him something light with a lingering herbal or floral bouquet. When he came in too full of life and I no longer had the patience to deal with anyone, he got something dry, biting and harsh. Nights he slunk in smug and with a devilish gleam in his eyes, I was sure to prepare something sweet and fruity just to knock him down a few pegs. The few times we met with almost equally near amiable temperaments, I would go with a cocktail that had a complex, yet balanced and varied characteristics from aroma to finish. No "Hey, how are you doin'?" was needed. The starting drink of the evening said it all.

From there, we would proceed to the vocal part of the conversation, an easy back and forth that ran the proverbial gambit. Inconsequential gossiping. Personal anecdotes. Opinions on current events. Interpretations of literary works. Subscribed to philosophies. Rationales. Future hopes. Upbringings. Interests. Takes on morality, ethics and responsibility. It seemed as if no topic was off the table, no matter how personal, taboo, or controversial. Little was held back in our mutual quest to understand what motivated, inspired, influenced, and made up the other. Of course certain things were withheld unless directly addressed, but for the most part we were unwaveringly upfront and honest with one another. Mostly because we recognized that we could spot the others bullshit from a mile away, and never failed to call one another on it.

That isn't to say that we were like minded. So far from it that actually we might as well as have been attempting meaningful inter-species communication. We agreed on absolutely nothing, bickering back and forth like an old married couple, as one of the weekend waitresses put it, neither willing to compromise their convictions nor back down from their assertions. We were constantly at an impasse and I had never felt more drawn to another because of it. We were contradictory in nature, I would argue down to our genetic makeup, but it worked for us. Interludes in our constant banter still included Izaya pushing my buttons for no other reason than to watch me self destruct. I still whipped various items at him in fits of rage and agitation, though soggy bar towels, ice cubes and dirty cheater tins replaced glassware and expensive bottles of alcohol after my boss threatened to dock my pay for my histrionics. I also managed to somehow avoid fumbling, or alternatively crushing, whatever I was holding whenever Izaya decided to tease me, under threat of the same. Oh god, how the man flirted! And always at the most inopportune times. Worse were the times I found myself engaging him back without the conscious decision to do so, even if I had difficulty discerning if he was serious or not. That blissful ignorance did not last much longer.

* * *

It was an unusually busy Friday evening in the fourth week since I had met Izaya. One of the regulars had brought the stragglers of a prior office party in with her, a celebration for someone or another getting a promotion or whatever, and the dozen or more that had accompanied her had managed to effectively take over the better part of half the available space in their quest to drink themselves stupid, or comatose. How I longed for the latter. Suffice to say, I had long passed the point of being amused by their antics and was more than ready for the night to be over.

I only had two hours left to endure when in skipped Izaya. Yes. Skipped. He was humming to himself something indistinguishable but still doing so loudly enough for me to pick up on over the din as he wriggled his way through the throngs of people on his way to his usual perch at the far end of the counter which had miraculously remained empty despite the influx of bodies, and I just knew that if I didn't do something to put a stop to whatever mood he was in immediately, my last two hours of work were about to become even more unbearable than the preceding six combined. I ignored the stack of orders that had piled up in favor of delivering a swift death to the more immediate of my issues. I didn't have to think about it. I set upon preparing the most sickeningly saccharin concoction in my arsenal of pointedly named cocktails like a man possessed, a Devil's Own with triple the normal amount of vanilla demerara syrup for good measure. From the corner of my eye I observed Izaya visibly deflate with no small amount of satisfaction once he realized the beverage I had prepared was destined to become his.

"Oh, Shizu-chan, you brute. Don't be like that!" he trilled in a sing-song manner, eyeing the glass I placed before him with open distaste. "I'm only thrilled to see you again!"

"You're here every night. Have been for the last month. It's not like this," I said gesturing around, my hand waving lazily, "is anything special anymore. Go find someone else to pester, you damned flea." Heh. I kinda liked that. Fit him perfectly. The nuisance wormed his way under your skin and no amount of scratching, growling, or biting could dislodge him once he decided you were worthy of his attentions.

"Shizu-chan is unnecessarily mean to me," he pouted, though the gleam in his eyes ruined the credibility of the act. Those eyes told me that I had not been as successful in my endeavor as I had hoped. Instead of expending energy I simply did not possess on him, I left him to entertain himself with a scowl as I returned to my duties.

Through some stroke of pure luck, or divine intervention, closing time finally descended upon the realm of weary, intoxicated mortals and they shuffled lethargically through the door to return to their individual lands of toil and responsibility once again. I heaved a contented sigh as the door sounded home with a dull thud signalling the nearing end of my shift at last. Silence reigned as Izaya and I were the only two left in the cozy space. Ah, Yes. Izaya. He was still perched in his spot. He hadn't looked up from his cell phone in the last twenty or so minutes, and appeared to not have noticed the sudden lack of others.

Despite my misgivings when he first came in, he had not, in fact, contributed to my steadily decreasing grip on rationality as I had expected of him. He had spent the evening avidly watching the overgrown children tottle about, occasionally offering up a witty remark, humorous observation, or caustic appraisal to the ether. As I listened with half an ear to him prattle on, I found myself viewing the idiocy that surrounded me with new, entertained eyes that caused the night to proceed more smoothly than before his presence. I had to admit, very grudgingly, I kinda owed him. It was with that thought that I decided I would make one last drink for the night.

"Ah." Izaya said looking up from the email he had been reading on his mobile when I placed a glass in front of him. "The Last Word," he sighed in recognition. It had become his favourite in the time he spent here. "How kind of you, Shizu-chan."

Letting the beverage do the speaking for me, as was oft my custom, I simply nodded to acknowledge that I'd heard before I turned to begin gathering up the used glassware left strewn about like the ghosts of those departed who had consumed the nectar once contained within, washing away the lingering ectoplasmic phantoms from every horizontal surface, and exorcising the last vestiges of the battles that had been waged in the names of many during the progression of the day. I found the ritualistic cleansing therapeutic and allowed the process to consume me.

"You know, it really is special," Izaya interjected casually after several moments of comfortable silence, just as my mind had begun to turn to tangents unrelated to the present.

"What is?" I asked, trying to find my place again in the conversation.

"This." He waved his hand about much like I had earlier in the evening. "Every day I get to see you is different than the last. New intricacies to explore. New facets to examine. New memories to lock away. Every chance I get to indulge in the effulgence that is uniquely your company is an immeasurably precious thing to me. I would be remiss to squander a single opportunity to partake in, if even for a single moment, the wonder you afford me."

"Huh," is all I can say as I carefully measured his words and tone, weighing them against every thing to spill past his lips up till this point. Finding everything about his most recent declaration incongruous with anything that has transpired previously, I settled for simple dismissal. "You're delusional. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"A few times at least," he chuckled dryly and I turned back to wiping down the counter. " But I mean it, Shizu-chan. Every word."

"And I'm the Crown Prince of Russia," I tossed over my shoulder to dispel the mood had settled upon us. I was more than uncomfortable with the shift.

"Really?!" Izaya chirped brightly. "Vashimi ustámi, da mod pit'."**

"Da. And fuck you," I growled, though it lacked any measure of heat despite the fact I loathed when Izaya would abruptly switch to speaking in a language he knew I couldn't understand. I had practically invited that one upon myself.

"I haven't discounted that particular possibility yet."

"Eh?" I looked up to him in confusion, not catching his meaning or intent with that statement. "Not discounted what now?" Oh, how I wished I hadn't uttered those words not two seconds after they left my mouth.

"You and Me. Fucking." His gaze absolutely smoldered, eyes ablaze with torrid promises and avarice as they bore through mine. "Though, this development is a bit quicker than I would have imagined, and I think the present venue leaves much to be desired in terms of atmosphere and comfort, I haven't discounted the activity itself. Perhaps you could finish up here and then we go back to mine?"

I don't think I've ever felt as much conflicting heat swell through my body as I did in the moments it took for his words and proposition settle in and dredge up a host of less than innocent scenarios and related imagery. I was snapped out my stupor by the ripple of desire that ran the length of my spine at the vivid scene my mind provided. One, in which, I was sinking my teeth into the crook of his perfect neck making him throw his head back with a throaty groan of masochism and arch further up against me, sweat slicked skin sliding across my own deliciously. What. the Fuck. was THAT!

"O-Oi! Shut the hell up you... you perverted flea! Fuckin' hell." The heat that had been collecting in my gut swiftly rerouted up the back of my neck to settle in my cheeks. I had grown immune to his teasing overtures, he bandied them about often enough, but that had been far more straightforward than usual and had gone far beyond anything I was remotely prepared for, conditioned or not. I hadn't had a good fuck in a while. That had to be the reason for my uncharacteristically fervent response. I made a mental note to scratch that particular itch as soon as possible, and most certainly with someone who was not the louse, nor who remotely resembled said parasite.

"Shizu-chan is absolutely delectable when he blushes. Really and Truly," Izaya mused. His eyes still held that impassioned intensity, despite being lidded with unmistakable lust and I felt my toes curl within my shoes in response.

"And you are absolutely insufferable. Really and Truly." I spat back at him, forcibly calling up all the anger I could muster in hopes I would be able to disguise the true nature of the effect he was having on me. "Now hurry up, finish your drink, and get the hell out before I'm tempted to forcibly remove you myself."

"Promise?" he all but literally purred. The remainder of his drink was downed quickly in preparation for what we both knew would follow such a question.

"I-ZA-YA-KUN!" An entire crate of glasses took a fatal detour towards the now much abused wall directly behind Izaya's usual seat from their intended destination of the washer.

"Too easy." He smirked up at me, hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets as he stood just far enough away from his previous station to have avoided the spray of glass. "I'm going! I'm going!" he groused as I began to reach for something else to launch at him. I tracked his movements with suspicious eyes as he traipsed across the floor towards the door. Izaya paused briefly, halfway in his crossing of the threshold out into the night chilled air. "Good night, Shi-zu-o." He blew a kiss back towards the bar where I was still seething and the door swung closed behind him.

The way he said my name... _my name_. Not that asinine nickname he usually insisted on...

"Fuck..." Yeah, that just about summed it up.

* * *

It had been a strange day. One that got increasingly more bizarre as it progressed. Between the shower head ripping free from the threading of the pipe during my daily shower, a vagrant following me a whole six blocks on my way to the station claiming I was the reincarnation of his estranged daughter, the top shelf of one of the displays behind the bar collapsing and taking out hundreds of thousands yen worth of liquor, having to actually make use of the spare uniform I kept in the backroom for the first time in the three years had worked there after my pant's pocket snagged on the corner of bar counter causing me to upend a tray laden with drinks all over myself, two truant secondary school aged brats who thought to have a lark by trying to jump me in the alley behind the bar when I was taking out the trash, a busty redhead's attempt to drape herself over me and shove her tongue into my mouth while still sobbing hysterically not fifteen minutes after having been part of a very messy and embarrassingly public breakup with her fiance, incessant calls to my mobile from blocked or unknown numbers that, when answered, only resulted in silence or heavy breaths on the line, and a few more minor mishaps, I could safely say I was short on patience, and beyond unnerved.

Perhaps the strangest occurrence of all was only made so by its remarkably mundane nature; I had seen neither hide nor hair of Izaya for the entirety of my shift at the bar. I didn't want to say that I was troubled by it, not at first, but as I grew increasingly agitated when his seat continued to openly mock me with its emptiness more and more with each successive metronomic tick of the clock, I finally had to swallow my pride and admit I was worried. That conclusive negation of self imposed denial opened a veritable Pandora's Box within my mind. Scene after scene, different possibilities, scenarios, narratives played across an imaginary screen behind my eyes, growing more difficult to contemplate as they became progressively implausible, but no less disturbing for it.

When had he become such a dominant fixture in my existence that his mere absence weighed so heavily on my mind that I lost all sense of equilibrium? What I felt towards him was different from what I shared with the few I called friend, yet deeper than what passed as tolerant acquaintanceship, and less 'animalistic' than anything with a single one of my short lived 'lovers.' So what did I call this? That question could wait. More pressing was the need to know where he was, how he was doing, and what had kept him away tonight. I could figure myself out after I knew Izaya was okay.

I trudged out the door, wishing I had some way of contacting him, or could figure out a method to garner his information from a secondary source and then utilize it without making myself out to be a psycho stalker. My gaze ascending towards the heavens in askance,and I heaved a sigh before was met with the visage of the very object that ruled my thoughts, lazily spinning around a lamppost a few feet down the street like something out of a Fred Astaire film. Relief, gratitude, and something yet unnamed flooded my veins as I drank in the vision. It was actually my first time seeing him dressed in something other than expensive suits, and I would by lying if I said a dressed down Izaya wasn't almost more bewitching as he danced in the pool of light that was emitted from the street lamp above him than he had been that very first night over a month ago. Black jeans hugged every plane and curve of his long legs and brushed the tops of expensive looking ebony coloured ankle boots with a leather sole, I guessed from the sounds produced as he moved across the pavement that were reminiscent of muted tap shoes. A lightweight t-shirt in heather gray with a deep V neckline covered his chest, but left little to the imagination since the thin material clung to every bony protrusion beneath as it moved the accommodate the supple sway of Izaya's body. Finally, he wore a scarlet hoodie under a tailored black peacoat, most likely to combat the nip of cold that always accompanied the depths of night, unheeding of season, but the articles only served to frame his lithe form in their current unfastened state. He tipped his head back, and sable tresses more lustrous than mink fell away from his face as he made another rotation around the pole, smiling softly to himself, and Oh! The difference the shift in lighting, muted warm gold replaced by glowing lunar white, made in the quality of his appearance. Gone was the sultry devil I had dealt with daily up to this point. My mind supplied a solitary word for the creature now before me. Beautiful.

I unwillingly tore my eyes from the spectacle before me and instead returned my attention to completing the final work-related action before I could call myself free. Just as the bolt slid home, securing the rooms behind it from unsolicited visitation, a thin, yet surprisingly strong pair of arms wound around my neck from behind and pulled the body of their owner flush against my back. The feral snarl that had began to work its way up from the depths of my chest was cut short by a lilting giggle against my shoulders. Izaya. I don't know who else I thought it could have been. My frame sagged minutely from the sudden release of murderous tension as I remembered he and I were the only two on that particular stretch of street, and berated myself for having been so preoccupied with my introspections that I had failed to pay him notice as he slipped into the alcove setting the door apart from the pedestrian lane with me.

"Hey, Shizu-chan," he breathed against my back, his voice fluid and balmy as it resounded in the intimate confines of the space and our proximity. "Did you miss me?"

"What the hell, Flea?" I griped while attempting fruitlessly to wedge my elbow between us to pry his form from its purchase on my own. "You can't go sneaking up on me like that."

"I think I can, because I just did. You're surprisingly unobservant at times, you know that?" He nuzzled my neck in a manner all too much akin to a cat seeking attention for me to keep the grin the action caused from my face. I had always had an unreasonable fondness for the antics of little feline buggers. Thank god I wasn't facing Izaya, as I was reasonably sure he would intentionally read the expression to mean something less than chaste, simply to get a rise from me as he was wont to do.

"Fine. You _shouldn't_ go sneaking up on me like that," I amended. "And knock_ that_ right the fuck off," I huffed and wrenched my head away when he began to blow slow streams of air across the exposed strip of skin above my collar, bringing forth another amused, musical giggle from Izaya.

"Oh? And why _shouldn't_ I?" He was obviously ignoring my request since I could still feel the soft currents of his breath wind aimless patterns across my neck that left a wake of gooseflesh on their wanderlust journey to tangle in the strands of my hair.

"Last fucker who grabbed me like that landed himself a 3 month, no expenses paid, holiday in Keio University Hospital." Personally, I was disgusted with the memory of that particular incident. Its passing had marked the beginning of months of turbid self-loathing as I relapsed for a period in my hard won restraint and became once again the riotous incarnation of destruction and asperity I desperately wanted to leave behind. Raucous peals of unrestrained delight from behind me actually shook me bodily from my disparaging recollection.

Izaya's laughter at my retort caused his arms to slacken just enough to allow me to twist myself in their confines and face him properly. "Probably deserved it," he said, taking a step back which permitted me a better view of his countenance. "But you wouldn't so that to me."

"You really wanna test that little theory of yours?" I grinned at him with feigned menace.

"Only if it means I get to have you nurse me back to health afterwards," His lips quirked into his trademarked smirk, but his eyes didn't match in their lack of customary cunning, alerting me that we were about to deviate from comfortable territory. "But you didn't answer my question."

"Which was?" I hedged.

He plunged his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, the action pulling it slightly away from his body as he leaned forward to peer up at my face with intense eyes. Light from the street bathed the left side of his face and cast its radiance along his features, uniquely sharp in their placid slope, causing his eyes to glitter like gemstones. "Did you miss me?"

He was so earnest in his question I felt dread trickle down my spine and my earlier misgivings came to fruition. Having intuitively known that Izaya had been leading us to this point did nothing for my pathetic state of unpreparedness to join him on the stage he'd artfully set for us to play upon. He had called for my entrance while I was lingering in the wings unarmed, bereft of the words by which to engage him, as if my copy of the script had been lacking an indispensable page which left me forced to improvise without the secure knowledge of how the production was meant to progress. The revelations sparked by the curious events of my day were still too new, too unexplored, and too foreign to me in my paltry experience with their like for me to give them any voice, let alone act upon them. I needed an out. My mind clambered to find the words, any words, if they were to be had at all, that I could do nothing but pray would be enough to diffuse the thorny predicament his words brought unto me before its seeds could root, germinate, and blossom into an inescapable briar, without tear the both of us to ribbons for the effort.

"It's difficult to miss what never actually went away. If you want me to miss you, Flea, try a few days next time instead of just a few hour."

"So mean." he drawled with a pout. He looked adorable with the bridge of his nose pinched delicately in consternation. Too adorable really.

"What exactly should I have been missing then?" I baited, trying to get him to settle into the flow of our usual banter.

"We could start with my charming disposition. Or the devastating combination of my superior intellect and rapier wit. Face it, we both know the majority of people you deal with on a daily basis are dullards to a near insufferable degree who wouldn't be able to engage you in any sort of meaningful conversation if their lives depended on it, and only become marginally more tolerable in terms of companionship once the liquor loosens their tongue and civil pretenses fall away. I mean, what_ever_ did you do with yourself before me? And let's not forget my unparalleled and devilishly good looks."

Izaya was so unabashed in his lofty self appraisal, never mind that he was indeed correct in it, that awe and levity overwhelmed me. All the might and power of the Titans could not have stopped me as thunderous laughter wracked my bones and brought a fit of muscle convulsions that further upset my already tenuous poise. I was so unable to keep myself upright I found my arms wrapped about his waist to anchor myself and leaned weightily against him despite his willowy stature, as I rode out the episode.

"You sure know how to make a girl feel special, Shizu-chan." his hands shifted from where they had been on my biceps supporting my weight to my chest and he pressed forward as bat his eyelashes coquettishly.

"Girl? Where?" I made a show of looking around despite obviously being alone.

"Touche. But seriously, I have to wonder how you've managed to lure in your past bed partners. I can only surmise that it's through mindless animal attraction since you utterly lack anything that could be considered seduction techniques. "

"I-za-ya..."

"So touchy. Relax." He threaded his fingers through my hair, gently massaging my scalp with his blunt, manicured nails in such an enticing way I veered into the touch without thought. I secretly adored having my hair played with. "Huh. I didn't expect your hair to be so soft with all the bleaching you must do to keep it this color."

My eyes, which had closed without my notice or permission, snapped wide at the comment and focused on his which were much closer than I recalled them being moments before; nor were they by any means the only part of him that had drifted while my guard had been down. I became all too mindful of the brush and press of his chest against mine as it filled with slow, rhythmic breaths and the warmth that radiated from him with the contact. "Alright. That's enough of _that_ for one lifetime." I tried to gently disentangle myself from the tightening grasp he held me in. "Move, Flea. It's been a long day. I'm going home."

"Nope! I'm not done with you yet." Izaya's fingers withdrew my hair, but he left his arms to sling around my neck to detain me from the departure I sought. "I think I'll keep you right here, unless of course you are inclined to take me _home_ with you."

I just looked at him for a moment, incredulity painting my features. "Just what in the twisted mass you call a brain makes you think I'll just go along with what you want?"

"I don't think you know what it is that I want, Shizuo." There is was again. My proper name. I had a love-hate relationship with the way it sounded when it came from his lips. His normal tenor would bottom out with the heat that wrapped each one of the three syllables in rapture, like it was the single more blissful string of sounds his tongue had ever encountered. The hate came from the fact that whenever my proper name made an appearance in our conversations it was only ever a matter of seconds before I found myself giving in to him.

And I did. "Okay. I'll bite. What is it you want, Izaya?"

"You."

That one word sealed my fate irrevocably. Prepared or not, I was no longer left with a means to extricate myself from the position of having to face Izaya in this. My number must have been up with some figure of divinity because being cut some slack was simply not in my cards today. There had always been something different about my connection to him, something I wanted to delve into, just not so near on the heels of having acquiesced to the siren's song that was Izaya. I still needed time to process the significance of my decision, time I wasn't going to be granted by the looks of it. To think I had the audacity to attempt to delay this, I was such an...

"Idiot." I didn't even know I had spoken the word out loud until he let his head fall against my shoulder with a tired sigh.

"I knew you wouldn't get it," he said softly. "Or maybe you do and just don't want to admit it, so let me make myself more clear." He straightened himself and took my face in his hands so I couldn't look away, not that I would have been able even if I had wanted at that moment. His eyes were awash with weight of the emotions he wrestled with, emotions that I had never seen cross the expressive expanse of the twin orbs that BURNED with determination, yet held mine with such tenderness. I was transfixed. "I _want_ you. Not just your body, though it is beyond desirable. No, I want _all_ of you. The explosive temper. The astoundingly deep insight. The uncanny intuition. The unpredictable responses. The biting banter. The surprising gentleness. The humility that borders on self-deprecation. _Everything_. You have no idea how amazing you are. You fascinate, intrigue, and challenge me in ways no one ever has before. Stir up emotions in me that I've never seen the like of. I want so much more than a scant few hours a night across a counter with you. I want to _know_ you. I want you to know me." Izaya paused, the light dimming eyes like a fire spent, but still alive with remnants of heat. "And I think you want the same, so... what do you have to lose for trying?"

I forgot how to breathe and thought abandoned me. I had no words to return to him. Nothing that could compare, yet how desperately I wanted to give him some measure of the splendor he had bathed me in.

"So, what do you say?" his normally dulcet voice was marred by quiet uncertainty. I did the only thing I could.

"Shi-zu..." I kissed him.

It was just a soft, lingering press of lips, but a conflagration swept my body and took with it the last shreds of my indecision, doubt, and resistance. All those cliched sensations everyone talks about experiencing when they kissed someone for the first time? They were all there. The fireworks racing along every nerve, and stolen breath, and trembling knees, and pounding heart that threatened to bruise ribs, and the loss of recognition for anything beyond that point of contact. I felt it all and then some. My hands wrapped themselves around his body; one at his hip to steady him as he languished against me, the other between his shoulder blades to draw him ever deeper. I wanted to stay locked in this moment for eternity, a moment I had believed until very recently was forever to elude me for my temperament. His was the taste of bitter tea, luxurious unmilled vanilla, succulent red apples, and the teasing possibility of a future I'd only ever seen others enjoy. I had never realized, simply had no way to conceive just how much I CRAVED the chance until it was there within my grasp.

I also achieved a measure of clarity for myself, a name to lay in answer to the overwhelming question I my own psyche had posed me earlier. I was utterly infatuated with Orihara Izaya.

And as his sumptuous lips moulded around mine in return, I was overcome with the depth of an emotion that I had only ever fleetingly glimpsed previously. Hope.

* * *

Footnotes:

** "Vashimi ustámi, da mod pit'."- translates literally to 'I'd like to drink honey with your lips.' and is used in the same context that English speakers would say 'It is too good to be true.' I don't speak Russian myself, so I had a friend who does confirm my internet findings, to make sure it mostly functioned on both of the levels I wanted to use the proverb/adage for.

AN: If you are interested in the cocktails mentioned, or mixology in general, I used a friend's blog "Musings on Cocktails" to help me create the 'private language' between Izaya and Shizuo in the chapter. It reads a bit academically, but gives a good feel for what each beverage is, its origins and what kind of flavors in contains, as well as includes a recipe for each. If you Google the blog name it should be the first result.

If you feel so inclined, I would love to hear your thoughts on the story thus far. As always, thank you for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I lay claim to nothing besides the specific combination of words contained within. Not the characters or the lyrics, the rights of which belong to their respective creators: Ryohgo Narita and The Wombats.

Warnings: Language and Explicit Adult Situations (finally)

* * *

**We don't admit it but we never seen eye to eye**

**But its not through a lack of trying**

"Go to dinner with me this Sunday," were the first words out of Izaya's mouth the evening following our rendezvous just outside the bar.

"Nice to see you too, Flea," I griped as I set his glass before him. It was a drink of my own creation, a combination of a house made Alchermes** style liqueur and brut champagne, with a shaving of bittersweet chocolate to garnish. It was as of yet unnamed, since naming the cocktail after its inspiration was out of the question. Such a thing would only lead to my utter mortification and the swelling of his already overstated ego were it to ever be known.

"We never bothered with that polite nonsense before. Why should we start now, when _this_," he lifted the delicate flute gingerly, holding it to the light to inspect its effervescent puce coloured contents, "is all pleasantries we really need engage in while here? Besides, if I am judging the sugar content of this drink correctly," which he wasn't, "you already decide I was up to something the moment I walked in the door. And this is that something. I want to take you to dinner on Sunday. You'll go with me, won't you?"

After small disagreement about the terms of 'taking me out for dinner,' in which I finally conceded that the one doing the asking has the privilege of choosing, but was not obligated, to be the paying party for any given outing, and that next time would be my treat if I so chose, which I would, I relented and agreed to meet Izaya for dinner on Sunday. Izaya left that evening with a stolen kiss on the check, my mobile number programmed into his, and the promise to call me with the details I needed to know for our dinner date once he had finalized arrangements.

6pm Sunday evening, two hours before our reservations, an hour and a half before before I met Izaya, and one hour before I needed to be out the door, found me standing before my closet, towel wrapped around my waist, with no idea where we were going, and only the instructions to "look nice" to guide me in my wardrobe selection for the evening. The chosen meeting spot didn't give away any clues as to how nice was "nice" since 30 minutes walking from Seibushinjuku Station put us easily within reach of most anywhere in both Kabukicho and Nishi-Shinjuku and the wealth of variety they held. I was royally fucked. Even more so when I began to think about the very designer labels of the ensembles I usually saw Izaya wearing. I couldn't even begin to hope to compare to the standard that set, so decided that having been given less than clear indication of the level of "nice" required, I would settle for my own definition of the word and hope it was acceptable. I chose to go with a pair of charcoal grey slacks, a white-on-white sateen stripe collared shirt, untucked, under the cerulean cashmere v-neck pullover that Kasuka had given me for my birthday last year, with the black oxford's I usually wore to work. They also happened to be the nicest clothes I owned. With a spritz of cologne, a quick pat down of my pockets to make sure I had the essentials, and five minutes to spare, I was out the door and on my way to meet Izaya.

When I stepped outside the station on the other end of my journey, one that I spent riddled with trepidation and anxiety akin to a gallows walk, I immediately spotted Izaya. The idiot was impossible to miss, balanced as he was on top of a pedestrian barrier, standing head and shoulders above even the tallest of passersby, with all the appearance and suave of a GQ model in a way that only he could manage despite his juvenile antics. Crossing the space between us, a vaguely amused smile working its way onto my lips, and a fond warmth brewing in my chest, I was more than relieved that, judging by his slightly more relaxed attire, it appeared as if my best had been a sufficient interpretation of "look nice."

"Hey, Flea," I called up to him once I was near enough I was sure he'd hear. He pirouetted atop his pedestal with such ease and grace that one could have forgotten he was precariously perched a minimum of two feet from the ground on a structure whose surface could have been no more than six inches in diameter. Upon spotting me amongst the throng of people milling about on their way to or from their various destinations, a wide grin spread across his features as he hopped down from the cement post lightly and placed us on even footing.

"Ah, Shizu-chan! So you do own clothes other than your customary bartender kit."

Internally, I bristled, the corner of one eye twitching in irritation, at his comment before I remembered this would be the first time he had seen me in anything outside of my work attire. "Yeah, yeah. Do I finally get to know where we are going?"

"Uh-uh! You'll see when we get there." The sing-song quality of his voice rippled across my skin, soothing the knots of reservation before they could fully form in my mind. "It's just dinner. No need to be so worked up. And Shizu-chan." he continued, stepping closer and into my personal space after an appraising look that was filled with a little more than casual interest.

"Hmm?"

"You look dashing, really." He threaded his fingers with my own and my eyes immediately dropped to the connection. "That blue suits you."

"Ah... Thanks. You look pretty nice yourself." I managed to return without too seeming too affected by the overwhelming combination of his compliment and touch.

"Alright!" He danced backwards, heedless of the others around him, but still managing to avoid collision as he dragged me in his wake away from the station by our intertwined hands. "Follow me and I shall show you an evening the likes of which you'll never forget."

"For better or worse." I grumbled, half to myself, though a genuine smile played across my features.

"I heard that."

Weaving a path through streets teeming with all manner of people, Izaya prattled on about various things I admittedly only paid half attention to, as utterly immersed in the way his hand still fit itself into mine as I was. His skin, supple, smooth and with just a hint of masculine roughness to the pads of his fingertips as they brushed periodically across the back of my hand, was cool to the touch. Digits were fine boned, both slender and long in a way that belied the strength that was present in their firm, unyielding grip. The appendage altogether contoured itself exquisitely within my own, in such a way that sparked a small sense of wonder in me. Holding hands was such a simple act, but it was one I had apparently taken for granted before now as I was grounded and thrown to the heights of the stratosphere all at once by the innocently intimate touch.

Eventually, we made our way to the venue we were to dine at, 'la Mêlée', a high end establishment situated on one of the uppermost floors of a newer high rise in the area. Izaya explained that the name was French, meaning 'the Fray', apropo I thought, given battle being waged inside of me at the moment. If the quirking his lips was anything to go by, Izaya had accounted for my possible reaction to the appellation, and in some small way was exacting his revenge for all the pointedly named beverages I'd served him over the course of our 'courtship', if you could call it that. Oddly, the thought that he was aware of my frame of mind gave me cause to smile. The decor was simple. elegant and modern. Soft, yet clean lighting breathed life to the warm creams and taupes that mixed with bright sterling accents, all complimenting the deep mahogany tone of the furnishings that dotted the open floor, lending an insouciant atmosphere to the space.

After confirming the reservation with the host, we were led to a table set in the far corner of the establishment, flanked on two sides by expansive windows that offered a breathtaking view of the city below as the stirrings of nocturnal activity became even more prevalent, while offering a semblance of privacy in the public space. My moment of quiet admiration was interrupted by the arrival of our server, who quickly took our drink orders and left us to peruse the menus laid before us. I was completely unprepared for what I found when I opened the leather bound bifold menu. There was not a solitary Japanese character to be had in all of the three pages contained within. Nor were there prices of the dishes listed, I noted with no small amount of apprehension, but that wasn't my primary concern at the moment.

"Umm... Izaya?"

"Yes, Shizu-chan?" He looked up from his own menu, tipped his head to the side inquisitively.

"The menu is in... French?" I said lamely, guessing that the western style script that comprised the listings was the same language as the name of the restaurant.

"How observant. Or was there more to that?"

"Oh for fuck's ... Yeah. I don't know French." I felt more and more an imbecile as I sat there trying vainly to make sense of the dainty script laid before me. The paltry French vocabulary I had picked up as a necessity for my work was of no aid to me, and I had not been very keen on the compulsory English classes during secondary school, so I was unable to even fall back on to that as a point of reference.

He paused for a moment, eyeing me skeptically, before brightening so suddenly it put me immediately on edge. "That's alright. I'll just have to read it to you."

"I am _not_ a child, Flea." My fingers tightened around the booklet in my grasp while I fought my rising irritation.

"I can see that. If you were, I would be more than a little troubled, as that would make me a paedophile." A sharp glare from me seemed to sober him somewhat, but levity still simmered in his eyes. "If it would make you more comfortable, I could order for the both of us."

Despite still being leery of the circumstances, leave it to Izaya to choose a setting for our first date where I was completely out of my element, I felt some of the tension drain at his proposal. "Probably better that way. Just... don't order anything... weird."

"This not your normal fare?" And the teasing resumed, but his tone was one I was accustomed with from all our time together in the bar. I let that feeling of familiarity wash over me and take the rest of my irritation with it. I could do this. It was still Izaya, the same one I spent nearly every day with over the course of the last month and a bit. Only the scenery had changed.

With a derisive snort, I firmly shut the tome and laid on the table, leaving the deciding of culinary fare to the man across the table. "What gave it away?"

"Don't worry, Shizu-chan. I'll take good care of you. Nothing too weird, promise."

The server returned shortly, placing our drinks along side a complimentary cheese sampler in the center of the table. She asked if we had decided on our orders, after which Izaya proceeded to deliver in seemingly flawless French that even had the server mildly taken aback despite her training, yet blushing lightly all the same at the seductive intonations that seemed to dominate the language. With her departure the evening began to progress smoothly once again, mostly amiable conversation flowing with more ease now the libations lifted some of the self-conscious tensions that had been tugging on my nerves, that is until the first course was delivered.

"What are you looking for, Shizu-chan?" Izaya looked up, pausing in his task of cracking a raw quail's egg over an equally raw serving of finely mince beef and blending them together lightly with a small spoon.

"A grill, or hot plate, or something." I may have never been one for fine dining, but I was more than familiar with the concept of preparing one's food at the table oneself, even if it was unexpected given my impression of our current surroundings.

"Whatever for?"

"It's raw." I supplied patiently, as if my reasoning should have been more than obvious.

"Oh, you neanderthal. You're too much!" Izaya cackled heartily with an air of condescension that was subtly masked by his mirth. I had still picked up on its presence and was decidedly not appreciative. "It's Steak Tartare, or more accurately Steack à l'Americaine, even though the distinction between the two really isn't made anymore. Regardless, the dish is meant to be eaten raw."

"O-kay. And I'm not going to get sick or anything, right?" I resisted the urge to poke at the mass of uncooked flesh and egg. It looked rather unappealing but I could reserve my judgement until I had tasted it..

"No. You're not going to get sick. Do you have so little faith in me, Shizu-chan?" He lifted the slice of toasted baguette that he had topped with the the concoction to his lips as if to prove his point, with a slim eyebrow arched in challenge.

"About as far as I can throw a vending machine." I snorted as I followed his example, pride not allowing for me to be defeated in such a trivial matter.

"Oh! How you wound me!" Dramatic prick, but I had just the response to his theatrics. I grinned back at him as he quieted from his outburst.

"And you like it."

The remaining four courses were more conventional by my standards. All of the dishes were distinguishable and mostly pleasant, even if the meal felt heavy on my tongue and weighed in my stomach. Everything was too rich, too sumptuous, and despite the obvious care with which everything was prepared, I found the whole affair to be one I'd prefer not to reprise. When I told Izaya as much, he laughed with a dismal shake of his head and told me that my palate simply lacked the sophistication for such things, unlike the refined cocktails I crafted. I never saw the bill for the meal, as before it could be delivered, Izaya had slipped the server a black credit card and left it at that. The more I dwelled on the action, the more I found I, in fact, didn't want to know.

* * *

The next Sunday was mine to plan. After assuring myself repeatedly that it was not the expense of the excursion, but the quality of the company that mattered most, I had settled on taking Izaya to see a movie, followed by a late dinner at a nearby bakery-cum-bistro that boasted, in my humble opinion, the best breads and pastries in the city. It was to be a modest affair, however I was sharing in things held dear to me with my new beau, a gesture I imagined he would be appreciative of, and that small distinction had me feeling more confident in my plans for the evening.

I met Izaya outside the cinema nearest the iconic Sunshine City and 60 tower that served as the epicenter of activity in bustling downtown area of Ikebukuro, and a short trek from my complex. Upon his arrival, timely and chic as ever was his style, we had barely exchanged 'hellos' before he dove head first into our prescribe repartee, though a bit more trenchantly than usual, apparently prompted my chosen film for this eve's entertainment.

"Seriously?! Taking a date to see a romantic comedy? How trite." Izaya ribbed as we waited for our turn at the counter. "I thought Shizu-chan would be more inventive than that."

"Fuck you." I hissed without much venom. "I always see all of Kasuka's movies opening week, regardless of the genre.."

"Kasuka? Oh yes, you're little brother. You mentioned he was an actor. I'm curious, what is his role in this tale of love and mishap you propose we see?"

"Male Lead," was my terse reply, though the usual pride that accompanied being able to make such a statement about the accomplishments of my brother blossomed in my chest.

"Male... Eh?!" His eyes grew wide and he looked at me in open disbelief. I felt a measure of smugness at his reaction before it transformed to horror as his thoughts continued pouring from his mouth a little too loudly for comfort. "Your brother is Haneji..."

"Gods!" I slapped my hand over his lips to halt the flow of words, a bit more harshly than I had intended to judging by the pained squeak the action elicited, and looked around nervously to see if his near slip had drawn the attention of those in the vicinity. We had neared the ticket windows in the course of discussion and the press of bodies was more dense than it had been previously. With a wet swipe of his tongue against the palm of my hand still held against his face, Izaya brought my focus sharply back to himself. "Keep it down, Flea! Do you _want_ to get mobbed by hormone-driven teenage girls and fawning housewives?" I whispered sternly as I released him, allowing for my tone to intimate precisely what I thought of that image. Such a thing had happened on occasion when I was out with Kasuka and someone had recognized him, and unpleasant would be one word for chaos that inevitably followed.

"Sorry. Sorry. It was just highly unexpected, you know. Never in a million years would I have made the connection. Not only is Yu..." an acuminous glare had him quickly correcting the near slip, "Kasuka is notoriously tight lipped about personal matters, though it _is_ common knowledge he has an older brother whom he is fond of, but you two.. well there's not much a resemblance is there? Ha! Mairu and Kururi would flip out if they knew I was seeing their idol's brother." Devilish designs danced in his eyes at the prospect of lording something over the heads of his younger sisters, designs that needed to be stopped before they could be elaborated upon.

"Yeah, _would_. Conditional tense. As in, an imagined event. And it'd better _stay_ that way."

"Oh?" I readied myself for a confrontation of wills at the drawn out syllable that usually signalled his contrary nature raising its infuriating head. A needless thing as it turned out. "Though, I guess I can see your point. If my sisters, demon spawn that they are, were to be made aware this little morsel of information, I am sure I would never get a moments peace from them, and I think I'll take pass on that, thank you very much. So, your secret is safe with me."

"Yes, because the world revolves around you," I rebuffed almost flippantly, glad beyond reason that the exchange had not escalated further. "Nevermind us other lowly beings who might also be affected by your choices."

"I'm glad you understand." He reached up to ruffle my hair in derisive affection, which had me swatting tiredly at the offending limb, my enthusiasm dwindling in direct proportion to the relief I felt at the bullet dodged, though I supposed an evening with Izaya wouldn't be complete without less than errant crossfire. It was best to just proceed as best we could in the moment of calm between.

"Can we just go see the movie please?"

"Being the magnanimous boyfriend that I am," he pressed a hand to his chest as if to emphasize the pains he endured for my benefit, to which I simply scoffed, "Yes. We may proceed with this date as you have planned."

"Thank you." I dipped in mock gratitude, going along with his farce as I purchased our tickets. It really was the only way to put an end to the spells of light hearted melodrama Izaya was often taken by, and as chaffing as I found them to be, I always reluctantly enjoyed the puckish interplay they provided.

"However, in the spirit of full disclosure," he injected capriciously, "I am honor bound to inform you that, if this movie fails to maintain my attention I _will_ satisfy it through other means."

"Whatever." I wish I had taken him more seriously.

* * *

It seemed that some portion of nearly every day was spent in Izaya's company. In the weeks that followed, we went on a few more dinner or lunch dates as we could find time to, taking turns in choosing the night's fare, which ended with mixed results. As it turned out, sushi was about the only thing we could agree on conclusively, though we did not share the same tastes when it came to assortment. There was also one afternoon we spent riffling through a bookstore, in which I was at one point dragged bodily out of the 'Crafting & History' section, who decided and for what reason those two subjects were a fitting combination I'll never know, and over to 'Philosophy & World Religions' so that Izaya could regale unto me his find of a comparative analysis between Judaism and Existential philosophies, which was interesting enough, if a bit dry for my tastes, before flitting over to the hip coffee bar across the street, purchases and myself in tow. Then, during an impromptu holiday from my occupational duties after receiving an early morning call from my boss, Izaya and I found ourselves at the Ueno Zoological Gardens where Izaya spent more time observing and commenting on the other people milling about than he did the animals, which was fine with me oddly enough. I was happy to simply have his companionship for the afternoon. Of course, Izaya still made his way to the bar on a near nightly basis, to entertain and pester me as his mood directed. Most weeknights he would excuse himself after a cocktail or two, but on a few rare occasions that slowly increased in regularity, he would linger behind with the intent of inviting me over to his, as it was closer than my own flat, so that we could spend a few additional hours talking, kissing, or just enjoying the presence of the other quietly before crawling into bed together and drifting off, limbs intertwined.

Our sex life had been slow to build, though not for lack of chemistry or ardour, nor was I particularly complaining, in spite of the frustration I'd feel when the moments of physical intimacy were cut short leaving me more often than not with an issue to quell or rid myself of as I was able. It was difficult to keep my wits when I was with Izaya. Near impossible really, when every touch sent molten trails licking across once jaded nerves, every sigh proffered resounded in my very marrow like cathedral bells, and every lick and suck and bite was more rapturous, more salacious, more zealous than anything I'd yet experienced. But we had agreed, mostly at my urging, to take that part of our relationship slowly. I wanted to savour the affinity I felt for him, the process of constructing an authentic relationship for once, and all the emotions it brought welling to the surface, instead of falling in to the ease and familiarity of mindless, lust driven fucking, as tempting as it was. As tempting as _he_ was.

One particular night, about seven weeks into our relationship proper, brought a sudden shift in the dynamics cultivated previously, despite its innocent beginnings.

* * *

"You've _never_ been to a nightclub?" There was a glimmer in his eyes when he said this that I, from experience, immediately distrusted. Nothing good, for me at least, ever came from that look and as determined as I was to stay home and enjoy a quiet night with my now steady boyfriend, who I hadn't seen much of in the last week because of work, that gleam told me I was not to get my wish. But I'd be damned if I didn't try.

"Izaya," I began carefully, "No. Everything I've seen and heard about nightclubs makes me think I would hate it. Hell, I can hardly stand rowdy pubs. Too loud, too many people, too little space, overpriced shitty drinks. Add my low tolerance for stupid and... it just _wouldn't_ be a good idea."

"But Shizu..." He was undeterred. Of course. One of these days I would stop expecting differently.

"Look," I massaged slow circles in the bridge of my nose as I cut short his whining. "I promise I'll go with you once, just... just not tonight, alright?"

Twenty minutes later found me seated on the edge of my bed in my boxers while Izaya tossed clothes from my closet by the fist full in whichever direction proved to rid him of the offending articles the fastest, trying to find some combination of my meager wardrobe that he deemed acceptable. I was starting to get a headache and we hadn't even left yet. I also knew it would be too much to hope that he would replace the clothes he had strewn about, leaving me to do so myself after I arrived home from what I prayed wouldn't be the inciting incident of The Apocalypse. Yeah, I had that much enthusiasm.

"Well!" He said letting the last item from my now barren closet fall to the floor, "I guess this means we will be making a little side trip before the main event."

"Huh?"

"Shizu-chan, you're hopeless. But you have me so all is not lost. I'll get you sorted out in no time. Just... put on whatever, so we can get going before I have to call in a small favor or two."

"Make sense, Flea," but he was already out of the room and heading towards the front door of my flat, no longer listening.

Skip forward another forty or so minutes, ten of which was spent bickering with Izaya back at the flat before the cab arrived, and we were standing in front of a high end boutique in Shibuya. A waifish woman with long ebony hair piled, hastily yet tastefully, atop her head rushed from some depths of the store to greet Izaya at the door, thanking him for his continued business before ushering us in. I surmised that he must frequent this particular shop, more than likely spending obscene amounts of money when he did so, in order to be on the receiving end of such treatment, the familiarity and exuberance of which left a sour taste in my mouth. It probably didn't help that the woman had barely spared me a glance before doting upon Izaya with a single-minded consideration, as if I were mere ornamentation for the other man. That feeling only increased tenfold once Izaya had explain the purpose for our visit. I felt as if I were nothing more than life sized doll for the pair to strip down and dress up as they pleased like a couple of ten year old girls. I was not once asked for my opinion as they navigated the racks, pulling items seemingly at random with no concern for size let alone price, though the latter was a habit of Izaya's I had become acquainted with over the weeks, though his frivolous spending never ceased to quietly gall me. Sometimes I thought the man to simply have too much money to sensibly know what to do with it all.

A while later, I was shoved into a dressing room that had already been stocked with the items selected coordinated in to complete outfits with instructions to start at the left and come out when I was dressed. The first two were vetoed by Izaya almost before I had fully opened the heavy metal door separating us. After him having found some fault or another with the next five, and a second trip through the shop that brought me four more looks to try on, I was at the end of my patience, and thankfully the last outfit. Small miracles, I'd learned to take them when I could.

I called it quits as soon as I had the dark, ruddy denim up around my hips, not even bothering with the button fly as I was planning on excising the article as quickly as I could manage, which still wouldn't be soon enough for my tastes. There was no way in hell I was wearing anything like this in public. EVER. The flea could go choke for all I cared at that moment. Speaking of...

"Shizu-chan? What's taking so long?" Izaya's chiming tenor carried over the top of the door. "You didn't forget which limb goes in which opening did you?"

"Uh... No. Just... no." I resisted the urge to beat my head against the wall as I gave the outfit one last look-over in the mirror before I grasped the waistband of the too tight jeans, which clung to my legs like a second skin, with the intent to wriggle my way from their embrace. "I'm exercising my right to veto this outfit. I'm done."

"Lemme see."

"Not a chance." As I began tugging at the denim wrapping my legs with renewed vigor, Izaya slipped in the dressing room and pressed the door closed with his back. "Get. Out." I didn't even have time to contemplate HOW he had gotten inside with me in the first place, the door was supposedly having been locked from the inside, when I met his pyretic gaze in the mirror as it raked over my partially clad form.

"My, my. Shizu-chan, you look..."

"Ridiculous." I bit out, brooking no room for argument. "Now get your laugh and leave."

"Mmm... I don't think you look ridiculous at all." His tongue darted out to wet his lips, eyes darkened to a sweltering near-black, and my pulse quickened in response. "In fact," he said moving away from the door and crowding me predatorily into the mirror at the back of the diminutive enclosure, "you look positively good enough to eat."

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Flea. We're..."

"Just keep your voice down and no one will be the wiser." He ran his hands up my thighs and leaned in to mouth teasingly around my ear. "Relax." He thumbed at my exposed hipbones.

Sure fingers mapped my chest, trailing over every protrusion on their journey northward, slid across my collar bones to wrap around my shoulders and drag blunt nails lightly across the skin they found there before he fisted them in my hair and pulled me roughly down for a heated kiss. My hands fluttered against his sides, still conflicted until he dipped his tongue into my mouth, trailing it over my teeth and grazing against the roof of my mouth causing me to groan lowly into his lips. My resolve and self-control unraveled and I pressed back into the kiss in earnest, locale be damned.

He surged up on to tiptoes, bringing our bodies flush and pressed his already full arousal against my thigh, and my hands impetuously settled over his ass, gripping and kneading the firm globes as I wedged a knee between his, drawing him even closer into me. I wanted to feel every subtle indentation of his ribs undulating back and forth across my abs as they heaved with his accelerated breaths. Izaya began rotating his hips in small teasing circles in time with our dueling tongues, grinding into my leg as his actions dragged the sharp length of his hipbone across my heating flesh and coaxing it fuller with each pass. Solarwinds cast concentric heliospheric waves of heat radiating through my limbs from the point of contact, culminating in coronal plumes dancing up my spine as they sent more and more blood sluicing down to my groin.

He shifted his stance to allow one hand to leave my hair and traipse back down my body, aurora oscillated wildly behind my closed eyes, colours shifting in correspondence to the trails of his roving hand sliding down my neck, palming my collarbone and pectorals, walking his fingers over each individual rib before landing to grope at my length. I bucked into the touch losing myself as he teased me through the constricting cover of my boxers which were rapidly dampening with the heady perfume of my lust. As his fingers slipped through the opening of my underwear to meet my cock flesh to flesh for the first time I gasped, wrenching my head back to connect with the mirror as I panted shallowly.

"Izaya..."

He wasted little time in pulling me free from my boxers so he could trail his fingers lightly over my length before taking firmly in his grasp and gave it a rough pump. Tears of precum dribbled out to coat his hand. He lifted his slick hand away and I whimpered at the loss, eyes focusing on him as he inspected the appendage. I watched with rapt attention as he smirked up at me and popped his fingers into his mouth one by one, cleaning them of my juices. The heat roaring through my veins coalesced into singularity, growing more calescent as it raced inwards to the white dwarf building in my groin.

"We don't want to make a mess out of your new clothes before we've even purchased them, now do we?" Izaya purred against my neck.

Before I could process his words, or think on the implication of them in this situation, he sank to his knees fluidly and nuzzled the side of my dripping length before laving his tongue base to tip in a slow torturous swipe that had me gnawing on my lip to stifle the groan the action pulled from me. His breath was hot against my skin as his tongue, lips and teeth traced every throbbing vein, crooked around every curve, and worked over every centimeter of my keen arousal, sending tremors racing through my body at each contact. Each nerve ending was a pulsar sending intermittent beams of raw fervency thrumming across overloaded synapses, forcing them to accommodate each and every sensation delivered upon them. I could count every pearlescent drop of my lust spill forth to mix with his cooling saliva on my overly sensitive skin before it was greedily lapped up with my eyes closed. I pulsed like a dying star in my pleasure, my vision finally collapsing under the weight of the onslaught as his lips closed over the head and gently sucked.

From the second his mouth met with my erection, his hands never strayed from their purchase on my thigh, rubbing teasing circles through the denim. My breathing became increasingly labored with every inch that sank into the sweet tight heat of his mouth, until it brushed the back of his throat and he swallowed. Once. Twice. He pulled back, suction dragging me against his tongue, cheeks, and ridges of his palate, before he surged forward again to repeat it all over again. His nose brushed the soft cotton of my boxers and stayed there as his throat constricted around my cock, pulled back a short distance, and pulsed forward once, the head of my length never leaving the rippling confines of his throat, even as his tongue curled around and massaged the rest of me. I forced my eyes open to look down at him.

He was throat fucking himself on my cock while one of his own hands fisted furiously around his own dripping erection. Eyes glazed but scintillating, tears leaking down his cheeks from nearly choking himself on my length, glistening lips with a mixture of precum and saliva, cheeks flushed red, hair disheveled, sweat slicked and clinging to his skin. He was the sexiest thing I've ever seen. Twin orbs razed up at me and I felt my breathing hitch at the sheer intensity they bore, ardor and desire swirling molten in depths inky pupils blown so wide it was as if I were staring into binary black holes as they pulled millions of celestial bodies to their deaths. In that moment, I understood that French idiom I had once heard. If it was at his hands, I would gladly die a little death over and over again if only for the chance to glimpse the sight laid before me now one last time.

It was my last thought as I came undone. Having reached critical mass, my body erupted with the intensity of a thousand novae, even as everything else collapsed in upon that single point of euphoric release and drained all I had into his awaiting mouth. As he released my softening length with a distinct pop, I slumped, spent and sated against the wall and met his gaze unsteadily. There was still heat and want swirling there and I felt myself twitching back to life in response. He lifted the hand he had brought himself to climax with and languidly cleaned his own essence from his fingers, tongue flicking out to capture every drop before it could fall and leave evidence of our activities, never breaking eye contact with me throughout.

We never made it to the club that night.

* * *

**It's always a shock when old friends pass by**

**But with you it's no death in the family**

Unwashed. Unkempt. Bleary, swollen, bloodshot eyes. Throat raw, dry, and aching. Hair matted and tangled from fingers gripping, pulling, tearing at it. Sunken, sallow cheeks sporting barely-there salted tracks. Trembling fingers and limbs that itch to reach to nothing. Tattered sweatpants, the same that were pulled on after the last attempt to drown in the icy shower spray.

This is me. This is my broken heart.

I still hear his voice from that night. That last night. The shrill mocking tone rings in my head, rattles around, and becomes more pronounced with each pass. I can't make out the words but that's no comfort really. I would never forget the words that he spat in my face, the ones that ended everything. No, not ended. NEGATED.

I wish I could forget. Just forget everything; the way he built me up, the way he pushed past my barriers, the way he ingratiated himself into my life, the way he gave me hope, the way he 'loved' me, and then way he... callously tore it all away. But how could I when everything in my self imposed solitude carries a reminder of him? His scent in the bedding, phantom echoes of his laughter in the walls, light tread of his steps in the rug, the warmth of his touch lingering in the air when it brushes my skin, after images of his smiles flickering around the edges of my sight that if I turned my head to focus on... Forgetting is wishful thinking. He is imprinted into my very soul.

I haven't slept in... I don't know how long. I've picked through my meager reserve of dried and canned goods whenever my stomach began to protest its neglect too much, only to have nausea sweep in and thwart the attempt. I gave up wandering the three rooms of my one bedroom flat, settling on the couch to... I don't know. But I haven't moved since. Time ceased to have meaning, like I exist separate from the normal linear flow of one moment to the next. Trapped in cyclical loop that keeps me from moving beyond...

A voice filters through the thick fog of silence that has doused my physical senses, one that is familiar but unwanted.

_"Hey! Shizuo? Did you know your door was unlocked? That's not really safe you know, even with... Oh, WOW! I think you've looked better after those epic fights you used to come to me after in secondary school."_ Where there was Shinra, there was...

_"Ow. Ow. Ow! Celty!"_

_"Shizuo..."_

I wish they would go away. Not because I don't want to be seen like this. That requires pride, and mine... No, I don't want them here because their presence is like bathing my wounds in salt. It only serves to remind me of what I thought I had had, further cementing the farce that was this past year.

_"Shizuo. What happened?"_

I just shake my head, because really... what is there to say that isn't already written on my face, on display for all to see? I'm not trying to hide it. Hiding takes effort and I have none to spare, not when everything I have is spent futilely dodging his ghosts, or alternatively submerging myself in his memory.

_"You've been dodging our calls, not responding to texts. This is the third time we've been over since we heard you were possibly back, but you never answer the door. No one has seen you in weeks._"

Weeks, huh? More than days, but less than months. Weeks. It had really been that long? It feels like more.

_"I mean, last anyone heard, you were still off playing house with..."_

DON'T. Just... don't. Hearing it would end me.

_"Shizuo...we're worried about you."_

Worried? Don't be.

_"Talk to us. You're our friend. It hurts us to see you like this."_

What can you possibly know about pain? I'm sure there is a hole in my chest. Large, gaping and dead center; where my heart once resided. It may not be visible, but I FEEL the raw, puckering edges of it pull, and strain, and chafe, and fester, and weep with each unwilling breath I draw. Anything you feel... have ever felt... pales in comparison.

I don't know how long they stayed... how much time they wasted trying to pull ANYTHING out of me. After an indeterminate amount of time, there was a soft squeeze to my left shoulder, a shift in weight to the cushions, and shuffling of feet moving away from the scene of my despair.

The door quietly clicked shut and the sound of it DID something to me. Something inside me broke... broke even further. I didn't how know there could be more thing left that wasn't already in tatters, but there it was... something tears, screams, and numb couldn't assuage. So I set out to do the only thing left to me.

Destroy.

* * *

AN: As I neglected to put it in the author's notes for last chapter, I would like to extend an especially big THANK YOU to everyone who has reviewed, followed and/or favourited. Your support and encouragement mean the world to me, really.

Many a Redbull and beer were sacrificed to bring you this chapter up before I get on a plane in 3 hours for a week long holiday for which I have yet to pack. I didn't have time to edit and polish as thoroughly as I normally would, so please let me know if you spot any glaring mistakes or incongruencies. Also, if you have any critique, or commentary you'd like to make in regards to the chapter, I would love to hear it, especially since I was nerding out on astrophysics while writing the lemon and may or may not have gotten carried away with the celestial bodies analogies/metaphors.

I'll have the next installment up as quickly as I can after I return. Thank you, as always, for reading.


	4. Chapter 4

This chapter needs to perish in hellfire for all the trouble it gave me.

Disclaimer: I lay claim to nothing besides the specific combination of words contained within. Not the characters or the lyrics, the rights of which belong to their respective creators: Ryohgo Narita and The Wombats.

Warnings: Language, Violence and Explicit Adult Situations

* * *

**It was the perfect disease we had**

**Something to argue and scream about**

Eight months passed us by. In what seemed the blink of an eye, fickle Spring wound herself ever frenzied into the sultry, tumultuous tango that marked the months of Summer, before coming to rest against the maternal embrace of Autumn as she wove her placid lullaby, calling the earth bound spirits toward their annual period of slumber. As I marked their passing, with no small sense of wonderment and awe, I treasured more every moment of Izaya's company afforded me than the one before. Not all may have been perfect, more often than not they were less than so, but they were ours. The evenings flitted away musing to the moon, while wrapped in each others arms. The mornings ensconced in the dark, snug cocoon we would build of his sheets to stave off the rising sun if only for a few more moments. Midnight games of shoji in the park by candlelight. Deep conversations that made feeble attempts to uncover and know the other more fully than the soul could even fathom. Weekends of bland domesticity. Public outings filled with whimsy and freedom I had not experienced since Primary. Testing limits, broadening scopes and challenging notions held on every and any design, distinction, and dream. Petty quibbling over things that did not, and never would matter. Near cataclysmic arguments about the few that really did. Somewhere between Izaya's incessant needling and my hair-trigger temper, we eventually found a steady balance that allowed for peaceable respite from the daily drudgery of city living. I was happy, almost unreasonably so, for the first time since I don't know when. Through it all, I never thought it would be a specter from the past, resurrected at the worst possible time, that would be the harbinger to mark the change of everything.

* * *

It had been one of those mundanely domestic of afternoons. Two months back, shortly after Izaya discovered my weakness for his English accent and saw fit to use it to my detriment at highly inappropriate times for his amusement, in an effort to loosen the sway he held over me with it, I convinced him to give me English lessons. To say my progress had been anywhere near either of our expectations would be a bold-faced lie. So, this mundane afternoon found us sprawled across his couch, him reading Sartre's "La Nausée" in its original French whilst reclining against my chest, and me watching seasons of an American children's cartoon about ponies, magic, friendship, and other such nonsense - or so I would keep saying to convince myself that I was not enjoying the show as much as I had been - that he had acquired by less than legal means and subtitled himself so that I might become more accustomed to hearing native speakers. For being a lawyer, I often thought he had a fairly lax attitude about adhering to the laws he supposedly upheld. When I had told him as much, he merely laughed, ruffled my hair while murmuring a quick 'Aww, Shizu-chan!' before returning to his book.

After some time, when the sun had dipped low towards the horizon and its brilliant impending death illuminated the skyline hidden behind the steel and glass structures of the metropolis surrounding us in dizzying spirals of corals, burgundies and fuschia, we sat down to a dinner of nabe, utilizing a recipe Izaya's mother had once prepared in his fonder memories of his childhood. Afterwards, I found myself stationed at the sink, elbow deep in suds and hot water, having been left to wash up our soiled dishes, as Izaya nursed his overly full stomach on the couch. I didn't bemoan the happening as in my own family growing up, those who did not cook, namely my brother and I until I started taking an interest in culinary activities some years later, were tasked with the clean up following a meal. I heard the television switch on in the adjacent room and the soft voices of what sounded like the evening news filtered through the air. A highly contented sigh left my lips as they curled upwards at the tranquility I felt in that moment. It had been one of our more perfect days by my count, the seemingly natural rhythm of which lulled me into a realm of sanguine repose that bordered on feeling, dare I say complete, turning it to one I doubt I would have minded repeating forever.

The peacefulness was short lived as loud peals of laughter broke across the low hum of the television and bounced around the open space chaotically, causing me to send the dish I had been washing tumbling back into the brackish water, a plume of which rose and and snaked through the air to paint abstract splotches across the front of my shirt. I clicked my tongue in annoyance before deciding to let the dish take up residence in the basin for a few moments longer while I investigated the disturbance in the other room.

Grabbing a towel to scrub at my wet clothing with, I peered around the corner separating the kitchen from the main living area in Izaya's apartment. "What's so funny, Flea?"

"Don't you find humans truly to be the most interesting creatures there are?" His voice wistful and earnest as he glanced at me to gauge my response. I suppose I must have had a blank look on my face since he continued a bit more insistently.

"Think about it," he pressed, turning fully in his seat to face me. "Animals have a set system of responses to stimuli that they rarely stray from. Animal instinct, predisposed behaviors, passed down from generation to generation with little deviation. Given a situation, there is a set number of ways an animal of a particular species will react, although with reason, it has more to do with evolutionary response than rationality. The human animal is different from its counterparts and infinitely more complex and compelling to observe because of the diverse manner in which individuals will respond in the same situation, or even the same individual in the same situation at different times. Every one is different, and yet, remarkably the same. The pure _range_ of human emotion and expression! It's just simply too fascinating!" Izaya had gotten increasingly animated, words falling from his lips like babbling water, the further he had gotten into his explanation making it harder to follow exactly what he was saying.

I cocked an eyebrow at him as he bounced expectantly, no doubt waiting for me say something in response to his allocution."O-K," I drawled hesitantly, unsure of where the tirade had come from or where it was leading. "You wanna run that by me one more time with a little less... Flea speak?"

His brow pinched momentary, affecting a pout of sorts, before he chuckled dismally. "Nothing. It's nothing." He turned back around to once again face the television, waving his hand through the air dismissively.

I followed his gaze, turning my attention from him to the screen to see if it could provide any clues as to what had prompted his rant and my blood froze. There, in larger-than-life high definition, was the image of a man I never wanted to even _think_ about again. The tag line under the image I couldn't tear my eyes from read: "Business Mogul to Face Assault Charges: Former secretary alleges misconduct in the workplace." The ground seemed to lurch under my feet and suddenly I am sliding sideways into memories four years passed, of trying my best to quell the maelstrom of emotions threatening to pull me under their influence as I awkwardly comfort my best friend once he had identified what is left of his sister after she took a nose dive through the plate glass window of their shared 15th story, two bedroom flat. The police, regardless of the inconsistencies present in the circumstances regarding her death, paid more heed to her possible mental stability following recent events and labeled the incident suicide, which left an unsettling feeling of disquiet in me. After months spent with hands tied and no means of recourse, though I burned with enmity at the injustice, I forced myself to accept it as the consequence of her association with the same man whose face was currently plastered on the screen across the room, if only for my own sanity, and locked the events of that time deep within my subconscious with the hopes of never revisiting them. A vain hope as it turned out. The towel I had been drying my hands on fluttered to my feet in shreds without me consciously having taken my growing agitation out on the object, yet I hadn't noticed until Izaya fixed me with a curious look over the back of the couch, the ripping of fabric having no doubt drawn his attention.

"Everything alright?" I couldn't bring myself to respond to his inquiry in any fashion. I felt as if any movement on my part would result in some unforeseeable catastrophic event. "Come sit with me, Shizu-chan." Izaya patted the cushions like one would to invite a pet up on the couch, an all too sweet smile painted on his lips.

I pressed the heel of my hand to my eyes and shook my head, as much to decline his invitation as to clear my head of the thoughts and images churning up from depths I had long hoped were forgotten. As I turned to retreat back into the kitchen to gather myself, I was stopped cold in my tracks by Izaya conversationally uttering the one name I couldn't even bring myself to think.

"Then, what is your opinion of Sato Ryouichi?"

I ground my teeth together to keep from lashing out at something blindly, though I wanted nothing more than to let loose and go on a murderous rampage at that very moment, those five syllables wrought so much havoc upon my inward stability. I LOATHED that name. That name brought nothing but pain, misery and heartache in its wake. A feral growl worked its way unbidden past my lips.

"Oh? That sounds personal. Do tell." I was so transfixed in my inner turmoil that I missed the glee dancing in his eyes as Izaya prodded me for details.

"There isn't much to tell. He's a heartless, gutless bastard who gets off on beating women black and blue for the fun of it. And the lecherous, cheating fuck gets away with it too, just because he has money and status. One lifetime of pain isn't enough to make up for all the evil he has done, but I'd still love to beat his pudgy, pompous, self-righteous face in every day just to show him how it feels. There isn't one _good_* bone in his god-forsaken body."

"That's quite the scathing judgement." Izaya said with a levity that was, in my opinion, unbefitting of the current situation, or at least considering my frame of mind, and I snarled at him in response, to which he brazenly arched a slim brow as if he was confident the action wouldn't further incite me. "I would tell you that it is absurd to divide people into good and bad, but I have the feeling the reference would be lost on you."

"I know Wilde, believe it or not," his insinuation of my lack of so called culture grating on nerves as of yet not throbbing with savage animosity, "but it doesn't stop him or the prick who got him off the first time from being blighters."

"Glad to know you think so highly of me, Shizu-chan." Izaya chuckled quietly, but his flippant remark gave me cause for pause and cleared some of the harrowing haze clouding my thoughts.

"What do you mean?" He couldn't be saying what I had taken him to mean by that statement. The part of me not blinded by blood lust hoped against hope the next words from his mouth would be a negation of my treacherous thoughts. I knew it was useless as the his lips tipped slyly into a shameless smile.

"I'm 'that prick who got him off.' Ryouichi was my first client after graduating."

The lazy chords of Izaya's haughty tone grated across my flesh like ten thousand shards of glass whose fractured crystalline surfaces chafed together as if attempting to bleed me of my last remaining shreds of sanity. "You... he was... because of... Haru," I sputter gracelessly, at a complete loss for words despite in some recess of my mind having expected this outcome. "Four years ago. My friend was that... _criminal's_ secretary four years ago. Did you know she _killed_ herself after that? Because of what you did!?" The hate and rage and raw unfettered tumult inside my very being swelled again, yet I found myself reluctant to turn their fury against Izaya, despite my misgivings of his involvement in the events directly preceding a friend's death. I knew Izaya, intimately. He was mine, my lover, my friend, and I could not simply lump him in with my personal incarnation of unadulterated evil. Grasping firmly to that thought, I half listened to him as I attempted to stamp down the infero threatening to overtake my sensibility, though I only gained a small measure of success in the endeavor. I was livid, but willing to listen.

"Haruki-chan was a friend of yours?" Hearing the familiar intonation of my friend's name brought on a wave of grief and loss that further helped to douse the flames of my anger. "Imagine that. I had heard, but I can't be held responsible for the actions of others. She made her own choices and I had no hand in them." Izaya sounded genuinely surprised at the revelation, and the physical manifestation of the sentiment wrested control of his features away from the previous infuriatingly smug expression he had worn.

"Maybe not," I loathed to admit it, but I had to concede the truth of his statement, but there was blame to be laid with him elsewhere. "But your actions let that monster loose to strike again. This," I gestured towards the television, which was unfortunately still playing the same clip over and over again as the talking heads speculated in voice-over, "could have been prevented. YOU could have prevented it."

"Now, that's unfair, Shizu-chan." He crossed his arms petulantly over his chest, yet the hardening of his gaze spoke of a seriousness that he rarely showed any matter, even as he kept his tone light and amiable, thus masking his true aim in this particular discussion. "I'm not the police. It is not my prerogative to prevent crime. I'm a defense attorney. I provide legal services to those in need, do my best to insure the wishes of my clients are met, and see that they do not fall victim to improper judicial process."

"You're clients, huh? Judicial process? So, where does _justice_ fit in? Tell me that, Flea."

"Justice?!" Near manic laughter vibrated his frame as he clutched the cushions desperately to keep from being deposited on the floor from the intensity of it. "There is no such thing, at least not universally." A stray tear was wiped from an eye, the set of them now gleaming with thinly veiled amusement as he set about 'educating' me. "It's an abstract notion, one which the definition of and the actions that would constitute seeing to that 'Justice' are completely subjective, left to the individual to determine. 'Justice' doesn't exist. It's my job to protect those who 'Justice' would destroy, to see to _their_ 'Justice' that would otherwise be neglected in favour of the majority. It doesn't matter who is right or who is wrong, such things are trivial and inconsequential. All that matters is what can be proven without a reasonable doubt."

"Right or wrong doesn't matter? Of all the asinine..." His magniloquent locutions were wearing at my patience, the threads of which felt as though they were being plucked from the thinning weave of the damp blanket I hastily tossed over the pyre in my gut with each passing utterance. My resolve was weakening, to the point where one misstep would send the blaze flaring anew. "I guess morals have no place in your job either."

"Don't be obtuse," it sounded as if I had almost offended him, though with Izaya it was hard to discern truth from fancy. "We've had this conversation before, as I recall. I told you then, and I'll tell you once more that I simply prefer to take a more normative stance on the topic. Morality is nothing more than making what a person deems the best possible decision given a situation in order to gain the most favourable outcome. The value of an action is based on individual values, not some set of illusory universal social constructs that people blindly cling to the notion of. To put it simply, nothing is intrinsically right or wrong."

I remembered the conversation, we had had variations of it several times over the past months, and now, as with then, I found the notion both liberating and awfully convenient. It seemed to be nothing more than dressed-up justification that granted free reign to be a complete twat without any niggling ramifications such as guilt. Not that Izaya had ever conceded the point.

"So, by your way of thinking, you pretty much get to do whatever you want with a clear conscious."

"More or less, but," Izaya paused and I could see the gears shifting behind his deceptively irenic visage. Instinctually I knew I would not find whatever turn he was about to spring on me to be pleasant. "I think the real question here is, why do you care so much?"

And there it was. Exactly what I didn't want to talk about if I was going to continue to keep reign over myself. I would gladly take back my previous grievances with verbose lecturings if it meant I could avoid dealing with this head on.

"None of your goddamned business," I bit out, most likely too defensively, around the alkaline taste that I suddenly found on my tongue.

"Oh no, Shizu-chan," he chuckled darkly and the air seemed to be sucked out the room with the sound. "I believe it very much might be my business. Who was Kaneko Haruki to you?" Izaya was standing now, having kept his perch on the couch throughout the scene that unraveled between us, and began approaching me with sedate and calculating steps, a mild, nearly lazy grin playing across his features in stark contrast to the low velvet tones he now spoke in. It was a combination I wholeheartedly mistrusted. "She must have been someone very close to you for you to be so angry over her death. Such a shameful thing really," his grin taking a malicious edge as he delivered the killing blow. "Suicide is a coward's way out."

"Don't you fucking dare, Flea." My fingers clenched so hard they ached inside the fists they had formed, short, unkempt nails biting deep in the soft flesh of my palms like teeth as tiny rivulets ran down and over my knuckles to drip to the floor.

"No, I think I will, as you apparently need to hear it," Izaya halted in his step a few feet in front of me, appearing complete unaffected by the visual signs of my unraveling. "Countless droves of people throw their lives away daily. Toss aside all that endless potential and deny themselves the chance to grow from the adversity they face, the opportunity to evolve and find contentment in new things, usually for the most trivial of reasons. But the really tragic part," Izaya tucked his hands in to his pockets, for all intents and purposes, looking the part of perfect moroseness, "is that hardly anyone bats an eye at such wasteful behavior. Just this past week, in the Tokyo Metropolitan area alone, three young women between the ages of 16 and 24 killed themselves after being jilted by a lover. Haruki-chan wasn't all the different really, only her mortification was much more public. The man she loved threw her under the bus to save his own career, keep his wife and family, and denounced their relationship under oath for of Japan to hear. So I'll ask you again, why is this one different?"

"_Love_ had nothing to do with it! And these three other women, were they being blackmailed into an abusive relationship with their fucking boss?" Self restraint be damned. Izaya had the nerve to castigate not only my now departed friend for the admittedly shite choice she felt the only option left to her, but me for caring about it. Where were his lofty words of right and wrong now? The hypocritical, self-serving son of a...

"Now, now. That's slander, Shizu-chan," his condescending admonishment stopped dead my train of thought, "The courts decided that there was insubstantial evidence to support Haruki-chan's claims," but cut the brake lines of my self-control.

"That's bullshit and you know it! How can you be so damn cold and clinical!" I should have been more concerned about the alarming rate which the edges of my vision began to blur, everything dialing in on Izaya's face, his too bright eyes, the taunting quirk of his brow, full lips stretched in an impossibly wide smirk.

"I'm not. I felt badly for her. I really did, but in the end you can't stay living in the past. There are a million missed opportunities, thousands of could have beens, hundreds of if only's, but all we have is the now, and it is pointless to live with regrets. Especially those of a person who didn't think about you when she took a shortcut to the end. Haruki was selfish and is undeserving..."

And then there was red. In one long stride I closed the distance between us, fist lashing out so rapidly the air all but cracked as it rushed to fill the void in its wake. I primal roar I barely recognized as my own carried words that were inscrutable over the pulsing bass in my ears.

"She deserved the world!"

Izaya dodged the blow, sidestepping effortlessly to move him from its trajectory, but not a pace was taken to increase the space between us again. "Then why did she leave it? She made her choices Shizu-chan, and as much as you might wish, they held no consideration of you. I never would have imagined you to be so obstinate as to cling to ghosts."

I may have imagined the jeering tinkle of bell like laughter that followed the left hook I threw at him next. I was beyond words. Beyond reason. And beyond pissed.

"Alright, Shizuo." Izaya slowly began circling, a viper poised to strike, and I shifted in accordance to keep track of his movements. "If that's what it takes for you to finally accept the truth. Hurt me." He planted his feet into a well practiced stance that was neither offensive nor defensive, but wholly ready to fight. "If you can..."

I didn't need to be told twice.

I lunged at him, teeth bared like some feral beast with the sole intent of pinning him so it could sink its jaws into his flesh and tear muscle from bone. He deftly ducked under my outstretched arm, my own momentum carrying me past him, and there was a minuscule pressure that trailed across my chest that bore rise to a sharp stinging sensation that was wholly separate from the feelings raging under my skin. I rounded back on him, muscled coiled in ready.

A glint of silver in his left hand caught my attention as he lifted the object in his grasp from where it had been hanging leisurely at his side. A blade, I realized as I traced its almost lazy arch through the air. The bastard not only had a knife, but had used it against me.

"I-za-ya-kun," the syllables of his name were drawn out, rumbling deep in my chest.

The tip of the small flick-blade finally came to rest against Izaya's bottom lip, leaving a smear of vermillion against petal pink that twitched into a mocking sneer. I half expected him to lick clean the blade like I had seen psychotic movie villains do on occasion.

"First blood." The rancorous laughter that followed the declaration carved serpentine spirals through the air, teasing the fire within me to new heights. "I thought you wanted to hurt me, Shizu-chan. Not the other way around."

Another quick swipe with my right sent Izaya skittering back just far enough that I could land a solid kick to his ribs. He stumbled away and clutched his side with a muted groan, the knife held before him, tracing shuddering, warding arcs in front of him.

I took advantage of his impairment before he could fully recover the breath stolen by the blow and shot forward. My hand gripped the front of his shirt, finger twisting in the dark fabric, and I hauled him upright enough to be able to bring my clenched fist down sharply across his cheekbone. His head snapped to the side with the impact. Almost immediately the area darkened with the pooling of blood under the surface, small splotches from each knuckle quickly blossoming into hematic roses across his pale skin.

Without turning his head back, Izaya's arm lashed out, delivering a deeper slice to my bicep in retaliation. I flung him across the living room to crash against the side of his desk, the impact toppling the tidy pile of paperwork at the corner across its gleaming surface. Izaya righted himself quickly, rotating his shoulder to ease the pain as I stalked towards him. He darted around the desk, effectively putting a solid piece of furnishing between us, as if he thought that would keep me at bay for long.

"Come on, Shizu-chan. You can do better than that, surely." His taunt sent another dizzying wave of adrenaline coursing through my system. If he wanted better, I'd be sure to deliver better.

I snagged a heavy table lamp from the end table be the couch, hefted it once in my hand, before hurling it at him, neglecting to take note until it left my hand that the wall behind him was nothing more than panels of plate glass, which if I missed and it broke, there was a greater chance of the police being called to investigate the disturbance. That is, if one of his neighbors hadn't called already. Luckily, the projectile hit its mark, though with a glancing blow, but just enough to have the lamp to fall short of causing any real damage to the glass as it bounced off it with a dull thud.

Wayward fingers of blood snaked down Izaya's chin from his torn lip, the result of this last attack, like macabre warpaint, making him appear all the more dangerously unhinged. He spat out the liquid pooling in behind his lips, and tossed his head back with raucous glee as I propelled myself across the impedeing structure. I collided with him with enough force to topple us to the floor, sprawling in a tangle of wild, thrashing limbs. The tip of the knife he still held found fleeting purchase in my flesh several times before I rolled him under me and trapped the weapon wielding wrist away from our bodies. I brought an elbow down across his jaw, whipping his head to the side once again, a new vibrant stain instantly spreading across the abused area.

I hadn't been paying much attention to the hand I had left free until I felt a caustic pain lance through my already wounded shoulder. Izaya took advantage of my momentary distraction and slithered from my grasp. He skipped backwards a few paces while twirling the blade in his hand with nimble, practiced precision, the very movement aimed to egg me on I was sure. It only took me a moment to recover, but by then Izaya was turning to dash from the room.

"So slow!" he crooned mid-flight, a wide grin well etched across his face as he kept his eyes trained on me over his shoulder.

I took off after him, closing in quickly despite his having a head start. His feet slid to find purchase as he rounded the corner into the hallway that lead to to front door and stairs to the loft space, and I used his loss of momentum to bodily tackle him into the opposite wall with enough force that a lattice of hairline cracks appeared in the plastered surface.I snagged his wrists and slammed them against the wall above his head and the knife clattered to the ground from his loosened grip. I quickly kicked it away, in case Izaya were to weasel himself from my hold again. I transferred both his hands into one of mine and pressed my forearm against his neck just harshly enough that he couldn't draw enough air to quell is accelerated breathing. Ragged gasps and heavy pants were the only sounds to permeate the new silence for a few brief moments.

"Now that you've caught me, what are you going to do with me? Hmm, Shizu-chan?" Even trapped against the wall, winded and battered as he was, Izaya was smirking up at me like he was still in full control of all the pieces on the board. I wanted to wipe that smug, self-satisfied look from his face, exocise that spark of maliciousness that had taken root and smothered the usual mischievous light of benign impishness that shown in the eyes of _my_ Izaya. Anything would be preferable. An idea, only one, came to me, and in my desperation, I latched on to it.

I shift the arm I had barred against his throat to wrap my hand around his jaw and pushed his head back until his face was tipped straight up at the ceiling, fingertips digging into the bone with such force it was sure to leave more bruises to the collection I'd already inflicted. Tightening my grip around his wrists I still kept bound in my other hand above his head and pinned to the hard surface at his back, I swooped down and bit into the soft juncture of his neck and shoulder, working my jaw back and forth until I felt blood well in my mouth and spill across his luminous, flushed skin.

Izaya groaned in pain but arched into me as much as the limited space would allow, pushing his shoulder further into my mouth and groin pointedly against my thigh. The demon was more than a little hard already, and the knowledge caused my budding erection to twitch in delight. A sadistic smirk I never knew I was capable of twisted my lips as I dug my tongue into the wound I had created, prodding the tender flesh to garner another sound of torment from my prey. Releasing his neck with a wet sound, I bit down on one side of the stretched neckline of his shirt and smoothed my right hand from his chin down the strained column of his neck to grip the other side. With a sharp movement, I tore the garment in my grasp down the center, leaving his heaving chest bare to my ravenous gaze. Even in my desire to hurt him further, he was the most exquisite thing I'd ever seen.

I released his hands and in one fluid motion turned his body 180 degrees, drove his face into the wall, and brought the torn shirt from his shoulders to pool about his elbows. The breathy chimes of his renewed laughter resounded against the barren surface and lashed across my skin in intricate patterns that only served to heighten my need to silence him, to put him in his place. Grasping the tattered edges of dark cotton, I latched on to the back nape of his neck with my teeth, growling menacingly against the skin there, to hold him still while I worked his arms to cross against the small of his back and secured them with his own shirt, his laughter escalating as each second ticked past. Once done, I pulled him away from the wall, spun him again, and slammed him back in to his previous position against the wall with a hand wrapped around his throat, under which I could feel his stuttering pulse.

Izaya hissed as his head connected with a crack against the plaster. After a few gasping pulls of breath, he peeled one eye open and started chuckling anew. I tightened my grip, causing the sound to become thready and breathless, but not cease. Wanting silence, I crashed my mouth into his, gnawing on his trembling lower lip until he opened his mouth so I could coax his tongue to join mine in my mouth. Once I had it there, I brought my teeth down around the muscle to hold it captive as I wound mine against the tip in a cruel facsimile of passion. A mere distraction from my true gains.

With my free hand I undid the buckle of his belt and unfastened his pants, tugging them as far down his legs as I could without loosing my grip. Izaya bucked forward, seeking stimulation for his newly freed erection vainly.

"On your knees, Flea," I growled before taking the lobe of his ear in my mouth and sucking so fervently I could all but feel the capillaries breaking under my tongue. Izaya keened shrilly into the sensation, legs threatening to buckle under the onslaught. I had learned early in our sexual encounters that his ears were particularly sensitive, a fact I had intended on taking advantage of to maneuver him to my liking.

"Or what?" His eyes were alight with malice and glee and entirely too coherent, though I would remedy that in short order.

"Or I take you bone dry." My grin grew as something unnamable flickered in his rapidly darkening irises. "You have one minute to give yourself as much aid as you're going to get and then I do it anyway."

The grin faltered slightly, but never left his face as he stood contemplating my resolve to follow through on my words. I forced him to the floor with a harsh shove, his knees sounding sharply against the glossed ebony boards.

"You have 50 seconds, Flea, and I'm still waiting," I leaned over him menacingly to whisper in his ear, "I _will_ tear you up from the inside out."

I watched as his throat worked convulsively for a second before he lowered his gaze to the fly of my pants with delighted determination. He worked me free from the confines of my pants, deftly popping the button with his tongue and lips before taking the pull of the zip between his teeth and lowering it quickly. As he struggled to fully free me from the confines of my boxers without the aid of his hands, I tore open the tattered, blood stained shirt that clung to my upper body and tore a thin strip from the hem in preparation for the next punishment I planned to deliver unto him.

His lips wrapped snuggly around the head of my erection before he surged forward, taking me fully into the wet cavern of his mouth. I issued a barely audible hiss of pleasure as he pulled back, laving his tongue in winding patterns over my flesh as he went. He pulled off completely to plant wet open-mouthed kisses, nips and broad swipes of his tongue over every reachable inch, depositing glistening pearls of blood tinged saliva which dribbled down my length to catch and pool in the dark thatch of hair at the base. He took me back into his mouth and pressed forward until the head of my dick lodged in the back of his throat while he pooled spit in his mouth and spread it across the rest of me with quick flicks of the pliant muscle of his tongue. Izaya really did give the best head, but it was time to progress my plans for him.

"Time's up," I growled heatedly as I grabbed a fist full of his hair and pulled his mouth of my cock forcefully, wrenching his neck back in the process, trails of saliva falling to coat his chin along with the drying tracks of blood. Stepping on the material bunched between his legs, I pulled him roughly to his feet, pulling his legs mostly free of their trappings, and hefted him up the wall so that his toes barely found purchase to bare his weight. He promptly kicked his way free of the material, the cocky smirk firmly back in place for the moment. It was not in my plans to disappoint.

Positioning myself at his entrance, I gave Izaya a second to wrap his legs around my waist as his back pressed deeper into the wall to support himself before I plunged into him with one brutal thrust, uncaring of his comfort. He threw his head back sharply and barely contained an agonized scream, his previous ministration having coating my length no where near well enough to ease my entry. I used his preoccupation to loop the strip of cloth I had torn from my shirt around the base of his own weeping length a few times and pulled it tight, knotting the fabric firmly. He gasped at the constricting sensation around his cock and looked down at my handiwork incredulously.

"Can't have you enjoying this too much now, can we, I-za-ya."

"You brute! I never thought you'd have it in you!" He cackled, but his laughter was short lived.

I pulled back, relishing in the sensation of his passage attempting to hold me still, then surged forward with a sharp snap of my hips and set a grueling pace, pounding into him with long thrusts even as his silken walls fluttered around me, struggling to adjust to the sudden intrusion. The constricting heat was intense, greater than I'd ever felt before, and I fought back the overwhelming urge to come right then and there. It took barely half a dozen thrusts for his groans of pain to take a pleasured edge and I hefted his legs over my shoulders to gain a deeper angle into him. Izaya writhed and struggled against my grip when I curled my fingers into his hips, wanton sounds falling from his parted lips between desperate gasps.

"Oh... GOD. Shi... Shizu... oh! You... you've been... HA! holding out on... me." Not nearly desperate enough if he could still manage speech, I decided.

"Shut... UP!" Two particularly brutal thrusts punctuated my demand.

He howled a warbling note as I leaned closer, nearly bending him in half, knees forced back to meet his ears as he twisted his head back and forth and I used his weight and gravity to force him further down on to me until his buttocks met fully with my hips and I ground into the deepest recesses of his anatomy. As I continued to drive in to him with reckless abandon, I latched my teeth into the patch of flesh just below his jawline and sucked for all I was worth, drawing a shriek from him that could have rivaled a banshee's wail, and his walls clamped down on me even more. It was all too much and shortly I found myself peaking unexpectedly within the confines of his body, spilling my thick seed as deeply as I could. One of his legs fell from my shoulder to hook limply around my calf as I languished in my afterglow, forehead pressed against the wall next to Izaya's while I caught my breath. The change in angle however, was working wonders on my flagging erection still trapped within Izaya's body.

"Well..." he panted against the my neck, warm currents washing over hypersensitive skin causing me to shudder with new vigor, "as much as fun as that was, I'd like very much to come now."

"Who said I was done with you?" I lifted my head to turn a wicked smile on him, when I saw the barest hint of panic in his gaze.

"By the time I'm through, you're going to be so sore and thoroughly fucked that the thought of doing anything more than lying face down, ass up on your bed won't even occur to you for the next week."

"Do your worst," he jeered with a sweet smile. It was either a ruse, or he was a complete masochist and I had somehow missed noticing until this point, not that it mattered either way in the long run. Izaya was going to get his wish.

Over the course of the next two hours, I took him again and again. Sprawled across his desk, throwing his neatly stacked files to litter the floor haphazardly. Bent over as his face and upper body pressed against the cool glass that made up the outside wall of his living area. Ass perched barely atop the back of his leather couch while his body tipped back into the seat cushions. Face down with his hips pulled high as his knees skittered across the polished dark wood of his floor. Him bouncing on my cock while I lounged against the side of an armchair, where I finally relented and allowed him his release, the thick ropes coating our chests before he collapsed against my chest and rolled to the side bonelessly. I thought he had lost consciousness until his weak voice rasped, cutting across the silence that had only been filled with shallow pants previously.

"Move in with me, Shizuo."

"What?"

"Move in. Live here, with me."

All I could do what stare at him incredulously. After what had just transpired, were those words honestly leaving his mouth? How could us trying to kill each other not moments ago equate to us being good candidates for sharing a living space to anyone who claimed sanity and rational thought, both of which Izaya was adamant he possessed in spades despite moments such as this where I seriously questioned his stability? How was that the logical progression from this point? For fuck's sake! There were tracts of blood now marring the walls and trailing in small pools and messy swipes across the floor all around us. It looked like the scene of a slaughter. I couldn't think in this environment, couldn't process what any of it meant.

I bolted.

* * *

Footnote: * Ryouichi is written with the kanji for 'good' and 'one'. The character isn't important really, his name is meant to be ironic.

AN: I apologize that this chapter took longer than anticipated. Despite having a clear outline of the progression of events, the scene kept shifting in my head and I had a really difficult time pinning things down precisely enough to write. I blame Izaya. I will make no promises as to when the next will be up, since having detailed notes apparently means nothing in terms of how quickly I will be able to write.

Thank you to everyone who has read, followed, favourited, and reviewed thus far, and a very special thank you to StirlingPhoenix for lending me her eyes when I got frustrated with a particular bit. I hope this chapter was to everyone's satisfaction. If you are so inclined, I would love to hear your thoughts, feedback and/or critiques.

Until next time, as always, thank you for reading.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I lay claim to nothing besides the specific combination of words contained within. Not the characters or the lyrics, the rights of which belong to their respective creators: Ryohgo Narita and The Wombats.

* * *

I felt like an ass. A complete and utter twat. Oh, I was still angry, confused, and implacable, but the guilt over leaving Izaya on the floor of his flat so battered, broken, and thoroughly used... I refused to follow that train of thought to completion.

I snapped the two cups of the cheater tin together and shook its contents with more enthusiasm than strictly necessary, most likely watering the cocktail down and ruining its flavours in the process, but I needed an outlet for the agitation caused by the dark, destructive thoughts roiling riotously through my head like a lingering cultish mantra of self loathing. The saying 'out of sight, out of mind' couldn't be less true. All I thought about was Izaya. Him and how shameful and cowardly it was of me to be, for all intents and purposes, hiding. That night, its events, my behavior, and Izaya's surprise request threw what I had imagined to be stable bedrock shuddering and dropping away from under my feet. I had to force my mind back to the present, the bar, and the drink I was preparing.

The Bramble. An odd choice for the season, as it was usually a summer favourite, and we were decidedly beyond those cloyingly hot days. I carefully strained the contents of the tin into a tumbler full of crushed ice, but as I drizzled the crème de mûre over the top giving the drink its signature ruddy colouring my hand began to tremble. The swirling tendrils of rich current bleeding to carmine as they curled and effused reminded me too much of Izaya's eyes and the way the emotions danced through his expressive orbs always brought different colours to the forefront. I had served this particular cocktail too often in the past few days, and it had yet to cease mocking me by calling my attention firmly back to the tangle of thoughts and the ever looming question of 'just _what_ am I going to do?' Six days and I still had no concrete answer.

I hadn't seen Izaya in in that time, not since I fled his flat in panic. I'd also had no contact with him directly, though he had called a number of times, leaving only one voice message dated the afternoon following our encounter that I couldn't bring myself to listen to. Then there were the half a dozen or so text messages that my treacherous fingers kept opening. Six days to replay the images over and over, analyze the nuance and detail I'd been too preoccupied to pay heed at the time, berate myself for letting that time old call of anger lure me from my sensibilities, deconstruct the minutia of my rampant thoughts, and fret over the possible consequences of that evening.

At first, the sense of betrayal I felt towards Izaya for the part he 'inadvertently' played in the death of Haruki was still fresh, and raw, and filled me to the brim with loathing I wasn't sure I could reconcile, even after I had taken my frustrations out on his body. While I could believe that he had no hand in the incident personally, I simply couldn't reconcile the fact that he might have known that it would happen, that the smear campaign that befell her, at his instigation, would drive her to the unthinkable. With time I might be able to come to terms with it, accept it as a part of his dedication to his work, but the information was too new for that time to be now. We might get past this. We might come to an understanding of sorts, if that was the only issue on the table. Unfortunately, it wasn't.

There was the side of Izaya I had glimpsed that evening that was too new and too harrowing in its intensity. There had been a gleeful malice in his demeanor that had set me off almost as much as callous handling of a tragedy that still devastated me. It was the first shadow of ugliness I had seen in him, and it left me reeling. How did I miss that in all our time together? How deep did that ugliness run? What else was lying in wait under his perfect exterior and charming manner? Did I want to put forth the effort to reconcile and risk finding out? Was reconciliation even possible?

Somewhere around the third day after the meltdown at Izaya's apartment I recognized the webs of guilt encroaching on the periphery of my thoughts. Once I noticed them, there was no escaping the tangled weave that bisected everything else. I was no stranger to pangs of guilt that and remorse that struck me periodically, I often acted without pause to think, and the wisdom of hindsight would catch up to me, but never before had the niggling been so strong, so pronounced, so gut-wrenchingly horrifying. Even through my ire, I wished that evening could be undone. I had hurt him, just as I had threatened to. Just as I had meant to. Just as I always knew I would. His words only confirmed the fact. It made me feel like a monster, a caged beast that put on airs of docility, but, in fact, was merely waiting for the opportunity to maul its keeper to present itself. No. The caged beast wasn't me, but my rage. I was its handler, the one meant to, and responsible for keeping hold of it, control and tame it. If I couldn't, as was plainly evident to my eyes, there was no one I was able to trust around it, around me, on the chance that it unexpectedly reared and took another down in my stead. If I cared even one iota for someone, I had to keep my distance.

Distance was hard to get, however. Izaya wasn't going to let me go quietly, it seemed, Gods knew why. Who in their right mind would chase after a person so capable, and willing, of inflicting the kind of physical pain I'd last left him in? But chase he did. The phone calls were easy enough to ignore, thanks in large part to caller ID, but the text messages were another matter altogether. They should have been easy enough to delete without opening, but treacherous fingers and all. Once guilt over took anger as the predominate colouring of my thoughts, it was impossible to ignore the little snippets of one-sided conversation comprised of little black characters on the pale background of the screen of my mobile. Part of me _had_ to know if he was alright. Was he mending? Had I inflicted lasting damage? Had he been to the hospital? Was he getting around okay? Feeding himself? Who was caring for him in my absence? Did he forgive me?

I found myself reading and rereading those short messages, clinging to them, deconstructing them, hoping the held answers I refused to allow myself to simply ask for. I deserved the torment, and I gave myself to it willingly at every opportunity. Today was no different. Sitting in the back room of the bar, tie loosened and ready to make the trek back to my apartment, back in to solitude, my fingers glided over the screen mindlessly, calling up the messages once again.

**Sender**: Flea

**Received**: 2012-10-18 09:29

**Message**: You weren't kidding about leaving me bed bound. Nurse Shizu-chan should make a house call after he is done with his normal shift. (¯3¯)

I had been at work when that one came through, in the middle of the after work rush that accompanied most weeknights at that hour. It had sent ice water sweeping through my veins and several bottles of alcohol crashing to the floor when I had backed into them, trying to distance myself from the device in my hand.

**Sender**: Flea

**Received**: 2012-10-19 01:51

**Message**: I guess I'll take that as a no? Ah well, tomorrow is another day. Sleep well Shizu-chan.

I could just hear the complex interplay of disappointment creeping in under the light teasing tone in which Izaya would utter those words. Could just hear the airy tember bleed into warm fondness as he wished me good night. The soft smile that would accompany the sentiment being slightly twisted as hidden sadness pulled at the corners of his lips. A sympathetic expression always wormed its way onto my face with that image.

**Sender**: Flea

**Received**: 2012-10-19 13:16

**Message**: Good Morning! Afternoon. Whatever. (＾ω＾) How is my Shizu-chan?

**Sender**: Flea

**Received**: 2012-10-19 13:44

**Message**: The silent treatment, eh? See, that just won't work for me.

This was the day the phone call stopped. Izaya seemed to have realized that I wasn't going to take his calls, and though he had no way of knowing whether or not I would actually read the messages he sent, decided it was his best option of establishing any sort of communication with me. I remember being annoyed with the constant chirping of my phone that followed me around that day. I couldn't afford to turn it off, or place it on silent, since I never knew when something important, namely word from my brother, might come through. Izaya knew this, had complained about it occasionally, but was now using that knowledge to his benefit, trying every ploy in his repertoire to garner a response from me. Oddly, he never attempted to outright guilt me into action, but bribery, as well I knew, he was not above employing.

**Sender**: Flea

**Received**: 2012-10-19 15:12

**Message**: I know! Shizu-chan should pick-up dinner and come watch a movie with me tonight. That movie you gushing last week about was delivered today!

Case in point. Gushing was an understatement. I had been obsessed for months with finding a copy of the 1968 version of "Night Of The Living Dead". Izaya had tried to convince me to allow him download a copy, just to be done with my nonsense I'm sure, but I wanted a proper copy of the film. Wanted to own it. Needed to have it take the place of honor in my small collection. Now the film was a hostage, a negotiation tool. I'd never see it if I kept my promise to myself to keep away. That was more important than any material object.

**Sender**: Flea

**Received**: 2012-10-19 23:03

**Message**: Shizu-chan is no fun when he is ignoring me o(›‹ )o

I had nearly laughed the first time I read this one. Nearly. The message was everything aggravating, juvenile and endearing that kept drawing me to Izaya. That and what self respecting man sends text messages that could have been composed by a thirteen year old school girl? It was like that evening had never happened. Izaya hadn't pushed me to the edge of sanity, I hadn't lost my cool, and everything was as nearly perfect as it had been before dinner. But it had, and there was no taking it back. No reset button. No magic wand to wave. No retroactive continuity to write it all better. I had to make peace with the end.

**Sender**: Flea

**Received**: 2012-10-20 14:37

**Message**: Talk to me Shizuo

**Sender**: Flea

**Received**: 2012-10-20 23:20

**Message**: I miss you

That last one hit me like a fist to the gut each time my eyes trailed over it. Not because of guilt, not because of pity, but I echoed its sentiments. I missed Izaya something fierce.

The sable mink softness of his hair tickling my chest, my neck, and my lips in the morning. The hard angles of his hips, his arms and his ribs pressing against me on the couch. The brush of his long fingers through my hair. The teasing murmur that my roots are showing again. The way he presses his teeth into his full bottom lip, making no real attempt to stymie the bubble of mirth swelling at my expense. The sly grin the forms slowly and the sideways glance that accompanies it when he thinks he's being sneaky. The lilt and trill of his voice when he's happy or excited, and the low purr when he's contented and sated. The good natured slights and quips that really should make my skin prickle with irritation, yet soothe my nerves in less familiar situations. The psychological babble that he seems to carry at the ready, which used to leave me confounded. The devil's advocate play he engages in with the sole purpose of seeing something with new eyes, and drawing mine along with him. The childlike wonder with which he regards the world that is in stark contrast to the age old cynicism he sometimes exhibits, accepting all things but with a moderate dose of salt. The spontaneity of his actions. The whim and flight of fancy. Mostly, I missed the way he looks at me, like I am the most interesting puzzle he hopes to never solve, but will devote his every available moment to pulling the pieces together until at least some of the shapes are distinguishable. And I missed his constant company, silent or brimming with idle chatter. The presence of him by my side and the warm press of his hand in mine telling me that I am not alone. That someone understands, if only a little, and wants to be there all the same. Chooses to be there.

Oh Gods! Izaya liked to play devil's advocate. Of course. Maybe I had misread the evilness I saw in him that night. It was possible that where I had seen shadow was merely an attempt, hurtful and cruel as it was, to release me of my guilt. Was that guilt really misplaced? Maybe it was. Had Izaya meant to cause therapeutic harm? It was more than possible. I was not nearly naive enough to think that there weren't people who took joy in the pain of others, joy in being the cause of that sorrow and torment, but surely not my Izaya. As twisted as his views and antics may seem, I couldn't, wouldn't beleive that he was of that sort of pure malignant evil. If that was the case, how could I face him again after what I had done? That answer was simple enough, actually. I wasn't planning on ever seeing him again if I could help it, which rankled since I felt I owed him some token of apology at the very least. I was not proud of myself in that moment. I hadn't ever been really, but now that I was looking at events with fresh eyes, it felt even more heavy and cumbersome to carry that guilt. Perhaps I should make clear my intentions, call Izaya and explain to him my revelations and why we couldn't see each other anymore. I think I owed him that more than apology, but would Izaya take it, be satisfied with it and let me go without fuss? That I doubted. I looked down at the screen again and traced the characters that made up the message I had more than already memorized for it's brevity. He _missed_ me. As stubborn as I was, he was nearly as much so, but had on his side a way of seeing 'reason' that left little room for reinterpretation. He'd try his damnedest to make me see his logic and disregard my own. Izaya gave all the appearances of not yet being through with me, for whatever reason, and despite my flaws, as great and many as they were in my head, wanted me for a time more. If I didn't take some measure of action, it wouldn't be long until he was back at the bar nightly, cornering me, and hounding me for answers I wasn't sure I had.

I came out my musing with a start. My hand was raised, outstretched in a loosely closed fist inches above the surface of a horribly familiar door. Izaya's. How had I gotten here? I didn't remember leaving the backroom of the bar after my shift, didn't remember the walk I was sure had brought me to this point. I didn't often get so lost inside my own head that I completely disregarded the land of the living so completely, and yet I had, and ended up exactly where I wasn't sure I wanted to be. I looked at my hand then. Had I knocked? If so, how long ago? Did I still have time to turn heel and flee or had my subconscious driven me to the only choice that it found acceptable? If I was here, and there was indeed no backing down, what was I here for? What decision had my mind reached without my knowledge? Was I here to say goodbye, or because I couldn't bear to let go of the single more meaningful relationship I had ever had with another human being? The bolt was turned, clicking mutely against its casing and the door swung open, revealing the person who had dominated my thoughts for the last week. I felt in my bones that I had my answer. If he would still have me, I wouldn't push him away, though I should. I knew without a doubt in that moment that I was selfish to the core.

I stood motionless in the light that slipped from the open door taking him in. It was much like that first night that I had seen him. The world narrowed down, darkened and softened at the edges until it was just him. Everything was him. I took in his slim form hiding under the oversized track pants and thermal that I dimly recognized as a set that I had left here for my use. The way the collar slipped down one shoulder to reveal the tantalizing line of his collarbone, the thin, white skin over the bone marred sickly green mottled with blues and aubergine in a patchwork of healing bruises from harsh hands and hungry mouth that trail up his elegant neck and over his jawline. The still tender looking split in his lip that quirked up at the corner in a grimaced half smile as if the action caused him more than mild discomfort. The distended ring of deep violets and blush that faded to waxy yellow under one of his eyes. Eyes that were bright and guarded and brimming with a sea of conflicted emotions. Eyes that were locked on my own, silently asking a thousand questions that echoed the phantoms of my own for the last several days.

Neither one of us spoke for what seemed a lifetime, just merely stood suspended in a pocket of time of our own creation, watching the other. I had no plan of action, yet some how how I knew the first move was mine to make. Though I'd be damned if I knew what that was. Izaya shifted his weight, settling in the the edge of the door he held open to me, and the movement sparked some instinct in me. Since instinct apparently led me here, I followed its urging.

"Um... how... I mean, are you... I can see that... umm... fuck," I sucked in a deep breath and pushed out in a quivering toneless note, hoping the action would quell the writhing serpentine mass that coiled in my gut. The words finally came rushing out. "I'm sorry. For a lot of things. I let my temper get the better for me. I hurt you. Something I never wanted to actually do. And then I ran. I don't..."

"Shizuo." I looked up, not having realized my gaze had traveled to the floor, and met Izaya's steady gaze. "Do you want to come in?"

I looked at him in amazement. He was welcoming me back into his home. Despite everything, he was willing to allow me back into his life, even if it was only for the moment. Hope and elation bloomed in my chest, knotting around and choking out the weedy mantra of self loathing that had been the backdrop to my every waking moment for the past six days. There was still a chance. And I jumped at it.

"Yeah. I'd like that."

Izaya stepped back from the threshold to allow me passage, and for a moment as I dragged my feet past him I thought I saw a shade of smugness and something passingly sinister wash over his features. I was sure I had imagined it, but even as I dismissed the notion, a cool dread slithered down my spine that left me wondering if my instincts had set me on a course destined for more misery than I could bear.

* * *

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has left feedback thus far, be it in the form of follows, favourites, or, my personal favourite, reviews. Thank you all for taking the time to read. If you have the time or inclination, I would love to hear your thoughts. I hope you enjoyed the chapter.


End file.
